Take a Look at Me Now
by Cherielynn
Summary: AU - James Moriarty meets Sherlock five years before he meets John. James takes Sherlock off the streets, cleans him up and keeps him in a controlling relationship. Sherlock has come to realize that James is a terrifying criminal and he wants out, but doesn't know how he might get away until he meets John.
1. Chapter 1

Summary:

AU - James Moriarty meets Sherlock five years before he meets John. James takes Sherlock off the streets, cleans him up and keeps him in a controlling relationship. Sherlock has come to realize that James is a terrifying criminal and he wants out, but doesn't know how he might get away until he meets John.

Notes:

Inspired by this beautiful drawing:  
>fs71i/2012/178/3/b/moriarty_and_sherlock_by_

Comments are the stuff of happiness... :-}

Chapter Management

Chapter 1

Sherlock gathered up his bag and called out to Jim, "I'm going in to Barts. I'll be back later," as he opened the front door to the penthouse.

"Hang on, Sherlock," Jim said pointedly coming out from the bedroom buttoning up his immaculate, oxford shirt. James Moriarty, the man he lived with, crossed the room and took hold of Sherlock's upper arm in a tight grip, "Remember, we're going out tonight. Be back here at six, sharp."

"Yes, I remember. I always remember," Sherlock rumbled in his deep baritone voice. The last time he'd been late, Jim had punished him in a way that still made him burn at the memory. "I'll be back a little past five-thirty."

He knew better than to cause Jim to have to rush, and wanted to give himself plenty of time just in case. He went out of the front door of one of the most expensive flats in London. He and Jim resided in an opulent Knightsbridge penthouse and rubbed elbows with Saudi sheiks and members of Britain's elite. Sherlock didn't dare ask too many questions about Jim's acquisition of wealth because he knew it wouldn't get him anywhere.

Jim would simply kiss him on top of his glossy curls and tell him not to worry his pretty head. "Besides, the less you know the better. You really don't want to know what kinds of dealings I get up to, darling. I do the jobs no one else wants to do and people pay me handsomely. You play with your chemistry set and I'll take care of business. As long as you stay with me, loyal to me, Sherlock I'll always take care of you."

"I'm not playing with my chemistry set, Jim," Sherlock had said letting anger slip into his voice even though he knew better. "I do important work. I publish my findings and others…"

"Who reads your blog?" Jim said widening his eyes. "It's just a hobby, Sherlock. You can have your little hobby all you like.."

"I've had criminal analysts from all over the country email me about my findings. They send me questions and I answer…"

"Of course you do," Jim said condescendingly. "You do very important work. I've even forgiven you for destroying one of my schemes last year when you revealed one of my best kept secrets to Scotland Yard. That little "experiment" of yours cost me several million pounds…."

Sherlock remembered that night. He'd been terrified when Jim came home in a rage one evening asking him why he'd done it, shoving him up against the wall and spitting in his face. Apparently, one of the results of an experiment he'd published on his website had lead one, Detective Inspector Lestrade to arrest someone Jim had promised to help get away with an insurance fraud scheme that would have netted him a fortune. How could Sherlock have known it involved Jim? He never told him anything about his business. But, over the years, Sherlock had overheard plenty of information. If he wanted to, he could do much more serious harm to Jim's network. However, he would never dare.

Sherlock could no longer fool himself into thinking that Jim was anything less than the worst type of criminal. But, by the time Sherlock had pulled his head out of the sand and really looked at his life with Jim, he'd been firmly stuck with no hope of untangling himself without incurring Jim's wrath. And under no circumstance did he want to make Jim angry. Because, when Jim got angry, people died.

Now, Sherlock wasn't allowed to "publish" anything on his website that might interfere any of Jim's secret dealings. Jim's people had to personally comb through Sherlock's findings to be sure none of them could possibly lead the police to unravel any more of his complicated web work.

Sherlock sighed and took the rare opportunity Jim allowed him out of his sight when he was in town. He was a kept man on so many levels he'd forgotten what it was like to be able to act on his own. He had a few free hours and he damn sure didn't want to waste a second. He'd been in Jim's tightly controlled grip, for so long, he'd almost forgotten how to run his own life.

Sherlock sped down the stairs preferring to take them instead of waiting for the elegant, marble floored elevator. He wanted to move his body and work out the soreness of his muscles. He'd been trussed up in silken ropes for hours the previous evening under Jim's searing and scrutinizing stare. It felt good to stretch.

He hated to encounter any of the other residence of the penthouse suites. Even though most boasted obscene amounts of personal wealth, Sherlock hadn't found them to be any more interesting than the public at large. He mostly avoided them. He tugged down his shirt sleeves hiding the worst of the ligature marks from last night's session. Sherlock had been tied down on all fours, a ball gag stuffed into his mouth and been whipped with a riding crop until his entire back, thighs and buttocks were striped with welts, after which, Jim teased and sexually frustrated him until he begged for release. Finally, Jim wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's cock and jerked him off until he cried out from the intensity of his denied orgasm.

He'd hung his head afterward panting like an animal while Jim enjoyed watching him come down from their "scene." He'd removed Sherlock's gag and pushed his own cock into Sherlock's mouth and said, "Suck, I have work to do tonight. Let's get on with it."

Sherlock didn't know when sex had turned from caring, mutual lovemaking to an entirely sub/dom relationship, but it had happened gradually. He likened it to a lobster quietly boiling to his death in a pot, not knowing just how hot the water had become until it died with a tiny piercing wail.

Jim had made soft, urgent demands and Sherlock had quietly agreed, worried that if he didn't, Jim would make him leave and he'd be back out on the streets again. Jim always treated his whip marks and wounds afterward, shushing and cooing over each one. He hadn't drawn blood this time, but, they still stung him today. Jim told him once that he always looked after his prized possessions. He took care of his things and Sherlock was most definitely his now and always would be. He'd be feeling the crop marks for a long while yet.

Jim had a small fleet of private cars; but, when he went out, Sherlock almost always took a cab. He stood on the street and raised his arm. He'd have no trouble finding a driver on one of the wealthiest residential streets in London. Instantly, one pulled to the curb and he climbed in grateful for the escape and the chance to pretend to live a normal life even for the briefest time. "St. Bartholomew's," Sherlock told the driver and sat back in the seat to watch London speed past.

Fortunately, traffic was light and he made it there before he got too impatient. Fingers drumming, he reveled in the quiet joy of doing a few hours of work before he had to rush back to Jim's ever tightening embrace.

"Hello, Sherlock," Molly said brightly as he swept into Bart's lab. He spared her a fleeting glance and twitched the corner of his mouth by way of returning her greeting. She smiled back and bowed her head, used to his antisocial interactions.

"I've got three sets of eyes you can have. Remember? You asked for human eyes last time you were here. I saved them for you. Not technically supposed to do that…." she said blushing.

"Thank you, Molly," Sherlock said and this time really grinned at her. Fresh eyeballs. "As always, I don't know how I'd do half of my work without your assistance."

Molly was one of the few people he actually liked talking with. Although he suspected she had a huge crush on him. He'd managed to use her affection to his advantage, and it sometimes twinged at his conscience that he'd never be able to return it. He didn't fancy her, nor women in general. But, that didn't stop him from using her willingness to bend the rules for him.

She had no idea how bad it could get for her. If Jim even suspected she might have designs on what he considered to be his personal property, he had no doubt he could make her suffer in horrible ways, and make sure no one ever pinned it on him. But, Sherlock felt confident that he could walk a fine line between keeping her strung along, and keeping her affections at bay.

He needed her to allow him to continue his work at Barts and to keep him in a fresh supply of body parts and other lab equipment to continue his work, but he really didn't want give Jim any reason to hurt her. He knew that without his work, Sherlock would have jumped out a window long ago to get away from the intensity of Jim. But with the constant stream of self-imposed challenges, Sherlock managed to keep his personal relationship with Jim, if it could be called a relationship and not a form of human bondage, separate from the rest of his existence. At this point, he really had no choice. He tried not to think about it too often.

He nodded at her and headed into the staff locker room where he kept a spare lab coat. If he messed up his clothes again, Jim would take it out of his hide, literally. At first he gently chided Sherlock when he'd come home with holes eaten in his expensive shirts and jackets he'd bought for him. Jim didn't like Sherlock to appear as anything less than immaculate in his presence. As he often reminded him, if it weren't for him, he'd still be turning tricks for drug money or dead. Sherlock owed him and Jim always collected on his investments.

One night, after he'd come home in another ruined suit, Jim had given him a very painful reminder that he needed to take better care of his fine things. His lesson began when he saw Sherlock wearing a ripped coat and stained shirt sleeves. Jim had taken one look at him and ordered him to the bedroom.

"No, don't take them off," commanded his dark-eyed lover, a man he had once trusted but now feared. "I'm tired of telling you. Now I'm going to show you."

Sherlock apologized over and over but Jim simply placed two fingers over his mouth and shushed him. Then, Jim had tied Sherlock down to the bed and left there for three days. He came in with water and some bread but otherwise left him to thrash and cry out finally soiling his sheets in shame.

"Now do you see how important it is to take care of your things, Sherlock?" he said on the third night. If you don't take care of your things, they get ruined. Just like this suit is ruined now, do you see?" Sherlock had seen and knew he'd have to do what it took to keep Jim happy.

He'd begged and swore he'd do better and Jim finally untied him and helped him into a hot shower. It took a few months of tending to Jim's every whim, but Sherlock finally managed to get back into Jim's good graces and he'd been allowed out of the penthouse and back into society.

"Remember Sherlock, I'm watching you, always. Don't make me sorry I've trusted you." After that lesson, Sherlock had always taken extra special care not to ruin any more of his clothes. Sherlock grunted as he shrugged into the lab coat and carefully buttoned it up to the neck. He never could be too meticulous, Jim would notice the tiniest imperfection. He spent the morning engrossed in a very delicate operation and he was only moments away from obtaining the results when he heard the sounds of approaching footsteps and a very pleasant voice say, "A bit different from my day."

Sherlock looked up in annoyance. He was reaching a crucial and delicate stage. Any interruption now might cause him to lose his whole morning's work. He saw Molly enter looking back over her shoulder at someone coming in behind her. A short, fair haired man entered the room. He walked with a slight limp and carried a cane. When he saw Sherlock bent over his microscope, he immediately stopped talking and whispered, "I don't want to interrupt…"

"Oh, it's just Sherlock," she said lightly. "He's working on something for his blog. Sherlock, this is John Watson, he's going to be working here as a teacher."

Sherlock sighed and looked up. He took in the appearance of a man in his late thirties. He held himself at parade rest with both hands resting on the head of his cane. Hmmm, interesting. "Field surgeon?" Sherlock asked. His experiment could wait another few minutes.

"Yes, how did you know?" John asked him with a flicker of surprise in his eye. Molly huffed out a quiet laugh.

"Sherlock knows everything about a person. It's his gift," she said and ducked her head again with a blush. "He's done it to me so many times…"

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock interrupted her. This man held his attention in a way he'd never encountered before. Just standing there, quietly absorbing his surroundings he might well be the most interesting person Sherlock had ever met.

"Afghanistan, how did you know?" he inquired with a slight smile. The light, inquisitive look he had in his eye suggested he was amused and intrigued by Sherlock's question.

"Your bearing suggests British Army, your hair is still cut short in a military fashion and the slight shake in your left hand and limp suggest you've seen action but have recently been sent home. The tan lines above your wrist suggest you wear a long-sleeved, military uniform even in the heat."

"Spot on. That's brilliant," he said with a smile.

"Really?" Sherlock asked before he could censor himself. He hadn't received a genuine compliment in so long, he'd almost forgotten he was good at something.

"Remarkable. You said your name was Sherlock? Well, it's nice to meet you. I hope we can chat again. Molly was showing me around the place, but I have a class in," he looked at his watch, "Wow, less than fifteen minutes in the lecture room. I don't want to be late on my first day. I'm teaching a course on field dressing under stressful, battle conditions," he said and nodded to Sherlock.

Then, he left and Sherlock felt as if he'd been standing under a golden beam of sunshine which a dreary cloud had just cut off.

Molly shrugged and followed after him leaving Sherlock alone. "John Watson," he mumbled under his breath. "John, John," he muttered and dropped his gaze back to his experiment. "I'll see you later..."

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

Sherlock checked his watch. He'd recorded his results, excellent as he'd suspected, and cleaned up his work area. He had almost thirty minutes before he had to catch a cab back to the penthouse. He found he didn't want to go back early in case Jim was already there. The man tended to fuss unhappily when they had an important function to attend, and this evening's party promised to be very important. He might even see his brother, Mycroft there as a number of important, high ranking government officials had been invited.

Mycroft Holmes had managed to work his way high up the ladder of British intelligence and was the crown jewel in the Holmes family. Sherlock, on the other hand, had been written off as a bitter disappointment by his parents very early on. His family was entirely fooled by Jim's wealth and influence. They were truly grateful to him for taking Sherlock under his wing and straightening him out. Sherlock even suspected that Mycroft looked the other way when it came to some of Jim's business dealings because he kept Sherlock in check. Since he'd been with Jim, he hadn't embarrassed the family once. Jim made sure of it.

They'd been together for almost five years since Jim had found Sherlock at a party stoned out of his mind and taken him in, cleaned him up and taken control of his entire life. Sherlock had been in his late twenties, lean to the point of emaciation and utterly directionless. But, Jim had looked past his wasted physique and seen a brilliant intellect, and burning passion to know how the world worked. At first, it was something they had both shared. Now, Sherlock didn't believe they shared anything at all.

When they'd first met, James had given him so much eager attention and lavish praise. He'd put him through rehab and stayed by his side the entire time afterward keeping him out of danger of relapse, feeding him, nurturing him until he felt so grateful he'd committed himself to Jim, and fell into the seductive power of having all difficult decisions removed from him. All he had to do was get up in the morning, put on one of his expensive, designer suits and spend his days any way he liked. Usually he clocked in hours peering into his microscope in his own little private lab, but at times, he needed the powerful tools only someplace like St. Barts could afford. So, he'd made friends with one of the doctors there, Molly Hooper, and often spent hours when Jim was gone on one of his many business trips conducting experiment after experiment.

* * * * *  
>He hung up the lab coat in his locker and a thought struck him. John Watson would be finishing up his class just about now and maybe he could venture down to the lecture hall and listen in for a few minutes.<p>

When he arrived, the hall was packed and he had to stand along the back wall. It seemed John's topic was a popular one. He opened the large doors to the hall and was greeted by a wave of laughter from the crowd. John stood speaking at the front of the room next to a projector. On screen was a photo of a solider sporting a bulging, blood-stained bandage over half of his face. The other half of his face stared blankly off in a slack-jawed manner.

John had the audience on the edge of its seat, "I had to use a local on this fellow and stitch him up while our camp was under heavy fire. It was an extremely dangerous procedure to do even in a sterile operating room, but under a flap tent in the middle of a desert…" here he shook his head heavily as if he were reliving the moment. "He had a cracked eye socket, and his left eye had popped out from the concussive force of a blow to the side of the head."

The crowd gasped. "I managed to sterilize the area and pop the eye back in. I had to use two pieces of shrapnel to stabilize his skull and wrap it up to keep everything in place but, it worked. Today, Captain Wilson has the use of both his eyes and a pretty minimal scar along his left cheek. One of the embedded journalists we had with us snapped the photo you're looking at just as we broke camp."

"This one is a year later," He showed another picture of the same young man who looked considerably better. In the photo, both were still wearing combat fatigues. The man had his arm around John Watson's shoulders and grinned from ear to ear giving the camera a "thumbs up" sign. The crowd clapped and let out a cheer.

John looked quite surprised and abashed at their praise. He put both hands up. "Really, this kind of stuff is all in a day's work. The trick is to do what we've been trained for, but do it under extreme pressure. Sometimes, you have to use what you have on hand, ordinary objects around you and think very quickly. Today we've discussed some on-the-fly treatment techniques, and next class will cover how doctors can use everyday items usually found in military camps and outposts to treat combat wounds. That's it everyone, hope to see you all there."

Another wave of applause went around the room, and the crowd got up and began filing out of the lecture hall. Quite a few people stayed to speak with John, and he remained busy shaking hands and answering questions for a few minutes afterward. Sherlock stayed along the back wall watching the easy way he looked each person in the eye, laughing and responding to everything with confidence.

John had appeared quite ordinary at first glance, but with his jacket off, Sherlock could see he'd kept himself trim. When he smiled, it did something fantastic to his eyes. Even from this distance, he could see the glint of compassion in them. It was something Sherlock had never really felt for anyone before, and it mesmerized him to see it in John. The more Sherlock heard of his voice, the more he liked the sound of it. And, he realized, he could listen to John Watson's laugh all day long. Also, he wasn't using his cane as spoke about his time on the battlefield. Interesting, Sherlock thought.

At that moment, John looked up and saw Sherlock standing at the back of the hall leaning casually against the wall with one hand in his trouser pocket and the other clutching the leather strap of his bag. John paused a moment and looked right at him. His smile faltered a bit and he licked his lips, an unconscious gesture, and then nodded at him. Sherlock nodded back and felt just a small flutter in his stomach at John's direct gaze.

"That was an amazing talk, Dr. Watson," an eager young student said pulling John's gaze away from him.

"Thanks, uh…

"Stephen, sir," the student said. "The name's Stephen Morris. I'm planning to attend your entire lecture course. I want to be a field surgeon just like you. I'd love to pick your brain sometime."

"Yeah, of course. That's what they pay me for…"John said easily, giving all his attention back to the young man.

Sherlock suddenly envied Stephen. He had a legitimate reason to spend hours talking with John about an interest they both shared while he could think of no real reason John might want to talk to him about anything. He sighed and decided to go home after all. No point in sticking around when John was so busy. Besides, Jim would be furious if he lingered too much longer. He resigned himself to being happy that a man like John Watson existed even though he would never have the pleasure of really knowing him. He got himself moving. However, if he had looked up as he left the hall, he'd have noticed John's eyes slipped away from Stephen in order to watch Sherlock's slim figure until he disappeared through the doors.

Jim called out the minute he stepped through the door when he arrived back at the penthouse. "I've got your tux pressed. It's on the bed. I want you dressed and ready as soon as possible. It turns out I have some unexpected matters I have to address along the way."

"All right," Sherlock said and hung his bag in its proper spot in the closet. Jim had a place for everything, and Sherlock knew better than to leave a mess anywhere. He hummed a bit as he entered the bedroom forgetting for a moment why he was in such a good mood. Jim noticed immediately.

"What's got you in such high spirits?" he asked raking his gaze over Sherlock's form, even coming around behind him to look at him from every possible angle.

Sherlock stopped humming and shook his head. "My experiment went well," he lied easily. Thankfully Jim couldn't read his mind, and had no idea that the memory of John's bright smile still lingered in his thoughts. He began unbuttoning his jacket and shrugging out of it delicately. His welts still chaffed uncomfortably and Jim noticed.

"Oh, let me get that for you," he said suddenly helpful. He took Sherlock's jacket subtly checking it over for any damage. He even slipped his hand inside the pockets checking for objects. He did that often, checking Sherlock's trouser, jacket and coat pockets for anything he might keep in them. He did it, he said, to be sure he didn't lose anything when he took them to the cleaners.

But Sherlock knew it was how Jim kept tabs on him. He had once taken a business card from a medical supply salesman and slipped it in his jacket. He'd asked the man for it and intended to order one of his microscopes. When Jim found it in his coat that evening, he'd glowered at the name and muttered. "I'll get you whatever equipment you need. I don't want you working with any salesman. They're all cheats anyway, only out for a commission."

He'd later found out the man had suddenly been transferred to an Australian branch of the company. Ever since then, he knew better than to keep any personal information on him. True to his word, Jim had granted Sherlock anything he'd ever wished for and in return, all he wanted was Sherlock's undivided attention, that is when Jim was home to receive it.

Sherlock began on his shirt and pulled it out from his trousers gently trying not to let it graze the welts. When he stood bare chested, Jim came around behind him and rubbed his hands up and down his back. Sherlock hissed a bit but kept quiet. This was another part of their ritual.

"I love seeing you like this, Sherlock. I love seeing my marks on you. I know it's painful, but it's just a daily reminder of how much you belong to me. You always know it, don't you?"

"Yes," Sherlock said simply. He knew any other answer would result in some form of punishment. "I'm yours." He knew he had sold himself too cheaply. Now that he'd been clean for years, he'd been able to hone his research skills until he'd excelled in his field. Even if he did have to completely invent it himself.

He was the world's only consulting experimental researcher. He didn't need the money so he never charged a fee for his services. However, people who needed his help often sought him out. He took only the interesting cases and often times insulted the very people who needed him most, but when a really good case came along, he'd lose himself to it for days (when Jim wasn't home) and forget his present circumstances. At least he had his work.

The only times Jim demanded anything of him was when he came home. He wasn't home often, thankfully, but he expected Sherlock to take a keen physical interest in him at all times. Sherlock couldn't leave Jim's side for very long and had to be available whenever Jim had an itch. Jim's tastes were exotic and Sherlock had been taught how to thoroughly satisfy him. Over the past five years, Sherlock had learned to submit to all of Jim's cruelest fantasies.

During his travels, Jim had learned many creative ways to fuel his desires and wanted to try them all out on his kept boy toy, as he sometimes called Sherlock when he was being generous and my little "cock slut," when he wasn't. Sherlock had learned not to take it personally; it was his own fault he'd gotten himself attached to James Moriarty and unfortunately, he owed him his life.

Now, as Jim liked to remind him every time they got together, he owned Sherlock Holmes. No one else would ever want a brilliant freak like him, as Jim reminded him over and over, no normal person would ever want someone like him for very long. Once they got to know him, they run away cursing his name after he used his deductive skills to take them apart. Jim was the only one who understood his true nature and he loved him for it. It was Sherlock's duty to love him back.

Jim kissed his cheek and rubbed his hand along Sherlock's jaw. "You'll never have to worry about me marking you here, though. You'll be my eye candy tonight, darling. People seem to pay me much more respect when I've got a beautiful person hanging off your arm. I want you on your best behavior."

"Of course," Sherlock said disgruntled. "I haven't done anything upsetting since that incident with the French diplomat last year. I-I apologized."

"I know, dear one. Just whisper your deductions in my ear. That's another reason why I bring you along to these parties. You tell me things I'd have never known otherwise, and I know everything! I can never lose you, Sherlock."

Jim's praise should have made him feel proud, but it only made him feel sick. The last time he'd shown off and deduced a room full of important people, he'd given Jim the potential to blackmail two powerful families. Then, a thought struck him. How would John react if he knew what Sherlock had inadvertently done to hurt those people? He knew John would never be a part of helping a man like Jim. John's type of goodness only came along once in a rare while. Sherlock decided that no matter how hard Jim pressed, he'd say nothing about anyone tonight. Let him dig up his own dirt from now on.

Chapter Management

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

The party was an insufferable bore.

Sherlock stood at the unattended side of the mahogany bar. They were in a opulent ballroom filled with visiting dignitaries, billionaires and even some royalty. It was business as usual when he went out with Jim. How James Moriarty managed to get himself invited to such significant events mystified Sherlock. Even though he consorted with the elite of the land, he liked keeping to the shadows and pulling the strings of the most important people in the world from parties just like these.

He circulated, introduced himself quietly and took important individuals off into private corners of the room where they usually came back stony faced or shaking, trying desperately to compose themselves in front of the other guests. Jim made it his business to know everything about everyone important and he used that knowledge to get what he wanted.

Jim had just finished making his rounds and had found Sherlock trying to blend into the shadows. He came up behind him and whispered into his ear, "Tell me about him," Jim pointed to a highly decorated general.

Sherlock turned up one corner of his mouth in a mock sneer. He'd have to play the game. He'd try to tell Jim what he saw without giving away anything too personal.

"Gladly, he's an outrageous bore. He's lying to the barrister standing next to him about his time spent in Germany," Sherlock began.

"Oh," Jim perked up. "This sounds good, tell me more."

"He's telling the man he consumed every type of German beer the country has to offer when in fact, he hasn't."

Jim looked at him with a pained expression, "Really. Anything better?"

"Not unless you want to know that he's wearing a hair piece. But, I think that's so painfully obvious that everyone in the room could deduce it."

"You'll have to do better than that," Jim said his eyes glittering dangerously. He put a heavy hand on Sherlock's arm and squeezed it hard. "I can't use any of that idiocy."

"I've had a few drinks. I'm not at my peak tonight," Sherlock murmured eyes cast down at the floor. He knew what the look in Jim's eye meant; he would take out his disappointment on him tonight in the bedroom. Suddenly his resolve wavered. Maybe he could deduce something small about the man, trivial.

"Then, I'll take your champagne away and I won't let you have any more. Clear that ridiculous brain of yours and tell me about that general. I need to know what he's been up to and only you can tell me. You know what happens when you let me down, Sherlock."

"Yes," he did know. God he did.

"Good, go talk to him. And, remember keep your deductions for me alone," Jim shoved him forward and Sherlock knew he'd have to come up with something. Once again, he saw John's smile in his memory and resolved to return to Jim with useless information. However, just as tried to stand next to the general, a very beautiful brunette in a glittering evening gown glided in front of him and intercepted the general. She promptly began a conversation with him. He'd been very effectively blocked.

Unfortunately for Sherlock, the general seemed very interested in everything she said especially when she kept touching his arm and laughing delightedly at his every word. Sherlock turned and discreetly looked back at Jim who stood next to the bar glowering at the woman. He didn't know what to do next. He couldn't go back to Jim empty handed so he moved forward determined to butt into the conversation when he felt a sharp tap on his shoulder.

"Hello, brother mine," said a voice behind him.

Sherlock didn't have to turn to know Mycroft stood behind him. "What, did the dessert cart run dry?"

"Delighted to see you too, Sherlock. It's been too long," Mycroft responded.

Sherlock finally turned to see his older brother standing smugly behind him as he knew he would be. He was decked out in a rather dapper tuxedo and looked both healthy and slimmer than he remembered.

"I've got some good news," Mycroft said actually smiling at him.

"What news could you have that I'd consider good?" Sherlock asked cuttingly. The last time they had spoken was three years ago and Mycroft had taken him aside and told him not to mess up his relationship with Jim. He warned him that the only good thing he'd ever done was to gain the positive influence of James Moriarty in his life. The whole family agreed that this was Sherlock's last chance at a good, drug-free life and he should be as grateful as possible.

"I'm getting married, Sherlock," he said bouncing up on his toes a little. The man was still beaming his ridiculous smile. To that beautiful creature over there," he said nodding at the brunette in the sparkling gown. She's been my PA for a while now and well….love blossomed."

Sherlock gaped at him. "You married?"

"Yes. Mummy and I would love for you to attend the wedding.

Sherlock snorted, "I'll be sure to save the date," he said with a sneer. He'd rather be set upon by scorpions than attend a Holmes' family function.

Sherlock turned back toward the woman and noticed how she was doing her level best to keep the general engaged. "She's working for you right now isn't she?" Sherlock asked.

"She is, Sherlock," and I'd like you not to go near the man she is speaking to. It's vitally important that you don't."

"Why?" Sherlock asked through clenched teeth. "Why are you interfering in my business?"

"Your business or Jim's? You are swimming in some very dangerous waters right now, and I don't believe you are capable of navigating them. We've been monitoring your better half for over a year now and we've made an astonishing discovery. Could we step over to the balcony for a moment, brother?" Mycroft took Sherlock's elbow and began to guide him away from the bar.

Suddenly Jim appeared, "Hello Mycroft. It's been ages."

"Too long, Jim, I'd love to catch up but I'm afraid I've got some family business to discuss with my baby brother," Mycroft said smiling politely. "Our mummy is ill and it may be serious. I need to…"

"Of course, you two talk. Sherlock, I'll see you in a bit." Jim turned away but Sherlock caught the deadly glare he gave the back of Mycroft's head. Whatever happened tonight, it would be very bad when they got back to the penthouse. He'd never seen Jim this furious before.

Mycroft pulled him insistently toward the privacy of the balcony. "Sherlock, my intelligence tells me that James Moriarty has been connected with some intense criminal activity. He's involved in a matter of national security and we're very close to taking him down."

Sherlock simply stared at him. "You're what?"

"He's been implicated in a number of very bad…Well let's just say my involvement in MI6 doesn't let me tell you everything. I'm concerned you'll go down with him."

"You're suddenly worried about my well-being after letting me rot with that man for five years?"

"Sherlock," Mycroft said softly. "I didn't know it was this bad. If half the things I've heard about him are true... You never told us."

"How could I when you all worshipped the ground he walked on. You just didn't want to see." Sherlock said through gritted teeth. He felt hot tears prickle behind his eyes. He suddenly wanted to run as far as he could from all of them.

"I see now. I think I've always seen but didn't know how to help you. He helped you, Sherlock. He did exactly what I never could. I thought you were finally content with yourself, with him. I didn't know," Mycroft said coming closer. "I want to help you now. What do you need?"

Sherlock looked up at his older brother and for the first time since they were children, he felt a small flicker of hope build in his chest. "I want out. I want to go somewhere he can't find me and get away from him. I want to leave him."

"I was hoping you'd say that, Sherlock. I want to help you get away.

Chapter Management

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

"I've got a safe house we can go to," Mycroft said. "I knew Jim would be here tonight, and I was hoping he'd bring you. Sherlock, If you want to leave him, we can go tonight."

Sherlock stared off into the night. "You're asking me to give up everything, Mycroft. How will I live?"

"You can live at the safe house until we can move you to a more permanent location. You will have to begin your life again, but you've gotten yourself clean, stayed clean, and that's a huge achievement. Mummy and I want to see you safe and we will help you with anything you need…"

"I'm a grown man, Mycroft. I don't want to run back to Mummy or you. I can't go home. Besides, he'd just bring me right back."

"My sources tell me we'll have him brought up on charges that will stick this time. We've got most of what we need to lock him up. He's gone beyond the pale in his current scheme. He's helping someone to sell arms to a foreign country, and that general you tried to speak to is crucial…Well, the information he possesses is crucial to his success."

"I didn't know," Sherlock said and brought his eyes up to meet his brother's. But somewhere deep inside himself, he did know and he suddenly couldn't look at Mycroft anymore. He hung his head. He'd been helping Jim all along by deducing people for him. He should have seen it sooner. Why else would Jim be interested in the general if he didn't feel he could use him in some way.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said softly. "We all failed you. We left you in his hands and he took you from us. He cut you off from everyone, and made you believe you didn't have any value except to him. That's not true. You have an amazing mind and you could do so much more with it. You don't have to give him another thing. Come back to us."

"What's made you change your mind, brother? You've told me often enough that sentiment is for the weak," Sherlock asked thinking back to sound scolding he'd received the last time they'd spoken about Jim.

"I see so much more now, Sherlock. Anthea has made me realize how important it is to feel something for someone, and I want to help you. I'm sorry for my words the last time we spoke. I just didn't know what to do for you."

Sherlock looked back at his brother's face. He could see the truth there. Had his cold hearted brother actually let someone in? Could he trust him now?

Sherlock felt as if he were falling from a great height. He wanted to stand on the ledge and allow himself to simply let go. He didn't believe he had anything to offer the world other than his research. Who else would want him? But, how could leaving Jim and being alone be any worse than what his life was now? Then again, if Jim really were going down, he'd be free….

"Yes, I'll go with you tonight," Sherlock said before he could stop himself. "Get me away. I can't be with him another moment." With that, he took the step off the ledge and followed his brother through the kitchen and out the back door. Funny thing, he kept seeing John's smile the whole way down.

John Watson whistled as he let himself into his small flat. He'd been teaching at St. Barts for over two months and felt better than he had in a long time. The director of the hospital had just spoken to him about becoming a permanent member of staff as a consultant and medical trainer specializing in combat field surgery. After being shot in the shoulder, he thought his life as a solider was over. Working in the field had given his life purpose and when he'd been discharged, he felt completely useless. It wasn't until his old friend, Mike had mentioned an opening for a guest lecturer at St. Barts that he began to feel like he could contribute in a meaningful way again.

He had a second date this evening with a nurse from work and thought he might even have a chance of things going his way tonight. It had been so long since he'd felt a soft touch or held anyone in his arms. His last romantic fling had been a young corporal in Afghanistan. But, only a few weeks after it started, the man had been transferred away to another unit and they'd lost touch. John had missed him at first, but as the fighting in their area grew worse, he didn't have time to think about anything else but survival.

If he thought about it, he found himself attracted to the person rather than the gender. The last time he'd felt that attraction was when he'd met Sherlock that day at Barts. He'd even gone home that night and looked him up online after asking Molly for his full name. He'd been impressed at the variety of research he found posted. The man seemed to be an expert in so many things it was extraordinary. He'd been disappointed there was no photo because he couldn't seem to get Sherlock's beautiful eyes out of his thoughts.

He'd been pleasantly surprised that day when he looked up and saw the tall, enigmatic man standing in the back of the lecture room watching him intently. He'd never believed in stories where people looked across a crowded room and saw someone who took their breath away. But, John felt all the air rush out of his lungs and his stomach drop when saw Sherlock watching him. He thrilled to know he might have a chance to get to know this mysterious researcher if they saw each other at Bart's from time to time. But, after that day, he never saw Sherlock again. He'd asked Molly about him and she shook her head. She hadn't seen him either but she had heard rumors he'd left London. She looked so forlorn and sad, he hadn't pursued it. Sherlock had obviously left an impression on her as well, and hadn't even bothered to let her know he'd left. Maybe it was for the best then, John thought and cast his mind forward to tonight's date with Katherine, a pretty redhead with an infectious laugh.

He'd just stepped into the front room when a movement caught his eye and his defenses kicked in. He dropped his coat and bag and prepared himself to fight.

"Don't get your hackles up, Watson," came a voice from the far corner. Someone sat in his overstuffed armchair behind a newspaper. He'd really gone soft if he hadn't noticed his home had been invaded the second he opened the door. "How have you been?"

"Moran?" John asked relief flooding through him. "You broke in to my place to ask me how I've been? Don't you believe in calling?"

Colonel Sebastan Moran put down the newspaper and grinned at John. "I never do things the conventional way, Watson. You know that." He stood up and moved toward John with his hand outstretched. "Good to see you."

"You too, I guess," John said warily. "Why don't you make yourself at home?"

"Yeah," Moran laughed. "I'll do that," and he plopped his tall, muscular frame back in John's only chair.

"Tea?" John asked politely.

"Beer, if you have one," Moran replied.

"Yeah, sure. But I'll have a cuppa, I think," John headed toward his small kitchen to turn on the electric kettle and get the beer. He had no idea why Colonel Moran was in his flat. He hadn't spoken to him since they'd been stationed together more than four years ago. They'd bonded on the battlefield and had worked together well. Colonel Moran had been his superior officer and John had followed him with unfaltering faith. He'd trusted the man with his life during those days and they'd parted on good terms. But, they hadn't kept in touch, and John wondered what his former commanding officer was doing in his flat.

"You keep a tidy place here, John. Not much in the way of personal items, though," Moran said looking around. John brought over his beer and handed it to him.

"Yeah, I'm just now starting to feel like I belong here."

"Thanks," he said taking the beer. "I didn't mean to invade your territory but I had to let myself in. I have to keep a low profile, and I needed to talk to you."

"All right, so talk," John said bringing in a chair from his small kitchen table and sitting down across from his visitor.

"John," Moran began leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "I've been hired to do a job, an important job but I can't do it. I've got some personal business that I have to deal with and I can't get out of it. I was wondering….I mean, since you've been discharged we're in the same boat you and I. We're military men who no longer have a unit. You and I need more in our lives than just the average 9 to 5, am I right?"

John nodded and tried to decipher what the Colonel was getting at. "You know, I've been teaching lately. I've been doing all right for myself."

"I know you have," Moran replied. "I've checked into what you've been doing. You can't seem to stay away from the battlefield even in the classroom," he said sitting back in his chair. "You miss it, don't you?"

John watched him carefully. "Maybe a little. I don't get much call for my particular skill set these days, but I make do."

"Well, I do. I've found an employer who keeps me busy and I get to play soldier from time to time. He's hired me to do a job for him. He's in a bit of trouble himself right now, but he's lost someone dear to him. He wants me to find him, a former lover or something. He's offering a small fortune and I just can't break away from what I'm doing right now. But, he's the kind of employer who doesn't take no for an answer, if you catch my drift, and I have to do the job."

"Okay," John said. "And I come in how?"

"I'd like to sub-contract out. I don't know anyone else I'd trust a mission like this to except you, Dr. Watson," here Moran grinned at him. "I remember how good you were on the field. You were the best man in my company, and I don't forget a thing like that."

"I appreciate that, I do. But, I'm pretty settled in here and I'd like to continue on at Barts if they'll have me."

"John, I really need this. All you'd have to do is find the lad, talk some sense into him and bring him back home. My employer is worried sick about him."

"Sounds like a bit of a domestic issue to me," John said. "Not sure I want to get involved in someone's break up." Warning bells were going off in John's mind as Moran continued.

"Look," Moran continued sensing John's reluctance. He pulled out a manila file with several black and white photos, some medical files and personal informational. "His name is Sherlock Holmes, he's got a history with drug use and he left under some suspicious circumstances. My boss is worried he's had a relapse and might have gotten back in with his old crowd. You're a doctor, and you can tell if he's using. He just wants to make sure he's safe and okay. That's it."

John started at that. He felt a warm burn in his chest just hearing the name. He held out his hand for the file. There they were, those thoughtful, intense eyes looked back at him from the glossy paper. Sherlock stood in several, candid poses and all of them looked like they were taken at a distance with a telephoto lens. "Does your boss always keep surveillance photos of his boyfriend? I don't see one personal photo here. I don't think this man knew any of these pictures were being taken." For some reason, he didn't want Moran to know he'd already met Sherlock.

"You're clever, John. But that's why I chose you for this. My boss doesn't work in the _typical_ business world. I don't question things too deeply, I just do the work and collect the paycheck."

John put back the photos and set the file in his lap. He didn't like this set up at all. It smelled rotten to him. Sherlock had disappeared suddenly and now John suspected it might have been to get away from Moran's boss. "And you want me to…"

"Find him. Talk to him. Get to know him a bit. Look, I can pay you ten thousand pounds if you do it. I'll even throw in expenses."

John whistled impressed. "Ten? And expenses? Where is he?"

"We think he's in Edinburgh."

"Scotland?"

"Yeah. I'd put you up in a nice bed and breakfast and you can make a holiday out of it. I don't think it would take you more than a few weeks. What do you say?"

John wanted to do it. The money was incredible and god knew he could use it. But, it wasn't his typical line of work. However, he could scout out the situation. It didn't sound too bad and if all he had to do was talk to him. He'd wanted to do that anyway.

"I'll have to let Bart's know. See what they say, then I'll let you know tomorrow."

"Excellent, John," Moran said rising up from the chair. "I'll be in touch tomorrow then, early?"

"Yeah, I call Barts now and speak to the director."

"You're a good man. I knew I could count on you, solider," he handed John the empty beer bottle and let himself out.

John sat a while longer looking at Sherlock's medical file. He steeled himself and reviewed the history. Cocaine, and later heroin had been Sherlock's drugs of choice in his early twenties. John sighed and mourned the loss of Sherlock's innocence and potential. He'd gone to university to study in Chemistry and hard sciences but dropped out just a little shy of receiving a degree. His grades had been excellent. What had caused him to lose hope and turn to drugs?

If nothing else, Sherlock's unnamed benefactor had gotten him clean, and for that he had to congratulate the man. He'd seen few people come back from an addiction like this. He only hoped that's not what had happened this time. He picked up the photos again and one in particular caught his attention. Sherlock stood in a dramatic looking great coat with the lapels turned up against the wind and he seemed to be looking directly at the hidden photographer. In fact, he seemed to looking right at John himself, daring him directly, "Come see for yourself, John."

John thought, "All right, Sherlock Holmes. I'll come take a look."

Chapter Management

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

John arrived in Edinburgh in the afternoon two days later and had been booked into an excellent B&B on Albany Street. The director of Barts, delighted at his recent successful lecture series, told him to take the time off and begin his new job next month. Moran had deposited five thousand pounds in his bank account that morning and promised the other half when he got Sherlock back to London. He even offered a little incentive if he could make it happen sooner rather than later.

He could see Edinburgh Castle from his bedroom window and the small establishment offered every luxury. Moran had kept true to his word when he said he'd be covering his expenses. His room had been paid a week in advance. Well, that gave him some breathing room at least. He put his duffle bag down on the fresh linen bedspread and looked around the finely appointed room. His employer certainly had spared no expense in this small, very private, three room, bed and breakfast. Whoever his benefactor was, he certainly had access to some serious wealth.

Moran had intelligence, from where he didn't say, that Sherlock had been spotted in new town, deceptively named since it had been first built in 1765, as opposed to the old town section of Edinburgh which dated back thousands of years. He'd been reported entering a Georgian townhouse in Charlotte Square, one of the most historic streets in New Town. Moran didn't know if Sherlock lived there or was simply visiting someone. He hadn't been seen since so John thought he'd do an old fashioned stake out.

Princes Street Gardens bordered the area so after unpacking his meager bag of clothes, he decided to head out and discreetly scope out the situation. Since summer had begun two weeks ago, the afternoon was warm and pleasant. Rain hovered on the horizon but John wasn't too worried. He had a light jacket and could bundle up if he needed it. He didn't know a thing about being a detective, so he found the address of the house and decided to just walk past it to get the lay of the land. The street itself had a few pedestrians walking along it. A large tour group bustled past him with two dozen secondary school students from America chatting away excitedly snapping photos with their camera phones and iPads. The building presented its stony façade almost mocking him. It was the epitome of stoic security.

They surged around him for a moment and John heard the tour guide giving historical information about the area. They stopped in front of one house, number 6 Charlotte Square, "This is the official residence of the First Minister of Scotland," the tour guide said and the group snapped several more pictures. Of course the house of Sherlock's last known location would turn out to be right next door to one of the most important men in Scotland. There was no way he was going to be able to just walk right up and knock.

John had no idea what to expect when he got here so made a circuit around the small park in the middle of the square a few times, and decided he couldn't just hang around. Someone was bound to get suspicious and report him. So, he headed down to the main section of town, toward Princes street, to walk around and find a friendly pub where he could hang out and decide on his next plan of action.

Edinburgh was a historic and beautiful city. He'd visited his grandparents here as a boy and remembered the green spaces best. The winters could be dreary and cold, but the summers always felt cool and restorative. It could be sweltering in London, but summers here felt like a cool kiss on the forehead. This had turned out to be a fortuitous trip indeed.

He found a pub and settled in. He ordered a beer and a sandwich and tried to make it last a while. He thought back to what little he knew about Sherlock Holmes. The man loved research, that much he could tell for himself when he saw the tall figure hunched over his microscope in total concentration that day at St. Barts. While his website hadn't been updated in past two months, it spoke of his varied interests and keen intellect. He wished he could have gotten to know him before he disappeared. What would draw a man like Sherlock out? Why Edinburgh? Then, it hit him. The University of Edinburgh boasted some of the world's most renowned medical research facilities. Those facilities might attract him like a moth to a flame. John had wanted to attend this school himself hever since he could remember, but his path had led down a military route. Perhaps, if Sherlock had chosen to hide out away from London, he'd have chosen to do his work here. It was worth a try anyway.

A thought pushed at the back of his brain. He got out his smart phone. The pub had free Wi-Fi and he called up Sherlock's website. There it was. There was only one entry that showed Sherlock had worked extensively with another person, a Scottish doctor named Edward McCullen, University of Edinburgh. A colleague, a friend perhaps? It was worth a try.

With a renewed sense of purpose, John left the pub and hailed a cab. "Edinburgh University," he told the driver. When he arrived, he saw a banner stretched across the front proclaiming, "University Open Days" and breathed a sigh of relief. The university was hosting a three-day event for prospective students to check out the campus. The gods must be smiling on him. It provided a golden opportunity to wander around campus without drawing undue attention to himself. If Sherlock were indeed living in this city, he'd most likely have made his way here. He decided to see if he could find Dr. McCullen's office. He was hoping the good doctor might still be on campus for the event.

John's luck held again when he passed by a signboard listing the lecture events scheduled for the next three days. Dr. McCullen's name wasn't listed but that didn't deter John in the least because one of the guest lecturers that evening was one Desiree Schmidt, a forensic specialist, newly appointed staff member, and expert in her field. Somehow John suspected Sherlock wouldn't miss a lecture on this topic. He still had two hours before her talk, however, but that would give him time to seek out Dr. McCullen.

He finally discovered the correct room in the faculty building and stood in front of the frosted glass window of the office door. How to proceed? He was just about to knock when the door opened and an older gentleman appeared carrying a leather briefcase and an armload of programs.

"Hello, Dr. McCullen?" John asked trying to project calm, and general friendliness.

"Yes," the man said peering over his spectacles at John in a manner all science professor's seem to naturally possess. John was suddenly transported back to his med school days and his time spent in classes just like these with intimidating professors just like Dr. McCullen. But then he remembered that had been fifteen years ago and he'd spent those intervening years as a seasoned field surgeon and solider.

He held out his hand and said, "Dr. John Watson here. I was in town and wanted to come meet you," he said hurriedly. "I'm quite interested in…His mind suddenly went blank and he clawed at his memory trying to remember what he and Sherlock had collaborated on. Then it came to him, "Chemistry."

The older man switched looked down at his occupied hands and back up at John without returning the shake. "Chemistry?" the professor asked archly. "The entire subject or something in particular?"

"Oh," John finished lamely. He really wasn't very good at this detective thing at all. He really should have had a much better cover story. "Chemical reactions in the decomposing human body, sir," he finished lamely. "I read about your work on the internet and was very interested in learning more. If you had a little free time to speak to me about it, I'd be grateful…"

"Oh, you mean Holmes' website," the doctor said sneering. "Yes, he and I did collaborate on some of that. But, I assure you, my part was minimal. He's the man you should speak to."

"I'd love to speak to him. Is he in the area?" asked John hopefully.

"Humph," he man said. "Unfortunately, yes. But I don't keep track of Mr. Holmes whereabouts. I'm really very late. I'll have say good day to you Dr. Watson."

He didn't seem to harbor much love for Sherlock, John thought. Tracking him down today might be tougher than he thought.

"Well, if you happen to come across him, I'd love to speak to him about his work. Here's my number," he said scribbling down his cell phone number on a receipt he had in his pocket. "I'm staying at the Bed and Breakfast on Albany Street." John handed him the slip of paper with a hopeful smile.

The man face softened a bit. You seem like a decent fellow so I'll give you some advice. You might want to avoid Sherlock Holmes."

John's smile faltered a little, "Why is that?"

"He's very difficult to work with and his methods are quite unconventional. He gets results, mind you. But I'd be careful about dealing with a man like him. He's got some unsavory connections…" The doctor stopped in mid-sentence. "I really do have to be going. I'll pass this along if I see him again today."

"Today? You saw him today?"

"Yes, he's on campus. Good day, Doctor," the man said dismissively and pushed past John on his way down the hall.

John watched him go with a sense of growing hope in his chest. His hunch had paid off and he might just see Sherlock soon.

Chapter Management

Chapter 6

Chapter Text

The lecture hall was crowded when John arrived, and he sat along the outside edge in the back. He didn't mind as it gave him an excellent view of the entire room. He made it a point to visually check over every one of the two hundred or so audience members, and he had to keep looking up each time a new person came in. The professor arrived ten minutes late, and began her lecture before John could finish checking everyone out. There were only about five male members in the group who might be tall, and thin, enough to be Sherlock. He could only see the backs of their heads so it didn't give him much to go on.

One figure in particular held his interest. This man sported a knitted beanie and sat hunched up under a tattered, old army jacket. It's a disguise, John thought, it's got to be. He looked too much like someone who was trying to pass for a uni student.

He'd just decided to move forward to the only empty seat directly behind his suspect when he felt a light tap on his shoulder. "Not me," a deep voice said just over the sensitive shell of his ear.

John stiffened and turned around. A pair of blue-grey eyes stared back at him from under a crop of dark curls. Sherlock's unforgettable eyes widened a moment and he smiled briefly at John's shocked look. "May I have a word, Doctor Watson?"

John nodded and watched the impeccably dressed Sherlock stand up from his seat. How had he ever thought Sherlock could be tattered Army guy, he didn't know. He did the same and followed him out of the crowded hall. He felt like an errant school boy who'd been caught doing something naughty.

He cleared his throat as Sherlock marched them up an empty hallway. "I've been trying to find you," John began.

"Obviously," Sherlock said rounding on him. "Who exactly sent you to find me?"

"Uh, an old Army friend of mine sent me to…." What exactly? John thought. Talk to him? Make sure he was okay, try to convince him to come back to people who cared about him. He looked pretty good for a supposed relapsed junkie.

"Moran?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes," John said surprised. "You know him?"

"Of him," Sherlock said. He turned on his heel and began striding away from John who stood for a moment watching his quarry walking stridently away.

"Wait, Sherlock," John called after him as he hurried to catch up.

"Why? It seems I'm going to have to find another safe house since he's sent you after me."

"Who? Who sent me, Sherlock."

Sherlock rounded on him angrily. "You just said Moran sent you. Don't play stupid, John. It doesn't suit you."

"I know Moran _sent_ me, but who told Moran to…?"

"What did he offer you? Money or does he have something over you, Dr. Watson? Why did you agree to track me down?" he snarled at John.

"He doesn't _have_ anything over me. I wanted to come….I mean I was curious about you. Moran got in touch as asked if I'd help him find you. He said he couldn't do it so, he asked me."

"Very convenient, don't you think? Moran, his most trusted man, suddenly can't do a job? And he asks you, someone I meet just before I flee in the dark of night, to just step in? He _knew_ I'd trust you. Somehow, he found out we'd talked that day. You've been played, Dr. Watson."

"No one played me," John said but something about Moran's visit and offer now seemed suspect. It did seem a little too pat, too perfect. When I found out it was you he wanted me to track down, I said yes. It worked out we wanted the same thing."

"Oh I doubt you and James want the same thing." Sherlock stared at him, raked his eyes up and down John's entire frame searching for something and appearing startled at what he saw there. He paused for a moment before continuing. "Do not follow me unless you want me to hurt you," he said striding away again. "I can hurt you, John. I'm not defenseless by any means, regardless of what he may have told you."

"Moran didn't tell me much about you, Sherlock. I mean I saw your files but… I don't think I've ever been this in the dark about anything in my life. Sherlock wait a minute, please. Tell me what's going on." John could hear the insistent pleading in his voice, and cringed at how desperate he sounded. "I really want to help you, if I can. Who is James?"

Sherlock stopped again and his shoulders slumped. "He's my nightmare, John. And I know you're helping him."

John caught up to Sherlock again. He saw the defeat in the long, lean face and wanted to brush his hand along his elegant cheekbone in comfort. "I'm not here to help James, I swear. I don't know who that is. I came to find you. Moran said…" John paused a moment not knowing how to continue on from here. "He said you might need help. You might have gone back to…"

"Heroin, cocaine? Something worse? Ah, of course. He pulled the damsel in distress card. Well, I should have seen that one coming. I see it all now. You obviously believe you can rescue me. You can't, John. No one can. All I can do is put off the inevitable."

"Sherlock, relapse isn't inevitable. I can help you with this," John said unsure why he felt so connected to this man he barely knew. But, he did.

"I'm not talking about relapse, John," Sherlock said angrily. "I gave up drugs years ago. I have no intention of returning to them. I was a fool to think running away would ever get me away from him."

"James?"

"Yes, James Moriarty. You may as well know the name of the devil in the shadows, John. My advice is to run while you can. No matter what he's promised you, you'll never be the same after he's sunk in his claws. Flee, far away or you'll be sorry you ever heard my name," Sherlock growled, stalking forward until he'd pressed John up against the wall of the hallway. His nose was only inches away from John's. He could feel the small puffs of air from between his lips hit his face as he spoke. "Stay away from me!"

"No," John said not allowing Sherlock's bravado to unnerve him. He'd obviously not been given full understanding of the situation. But, underneath Sherlock's brave façade, John could feel the tiniest quiver of fear. Sherlock was terrified of whoever had sent him. John sensed it and in unnerved him more than any threat of death to himself had ever done. Sherlock, bright and exceptionally beautiful, should never be so afraid of anyone. John felt anger rise in him at the thought that someone, apparently his former boyfriend, had used him to try to manipulate this brilliant man against his wishes.

"I get it now," John said evenly. "You left him because he's a dick or he's hurt you. I don't know, but I can tell it's bad. I'll just give him back his money and leave you alone. I'm not going to tell him a thing about you. The last thing I ever wanted to do to help someone who caused you pain."

Sherlock stepped away from John finally giving him another long, searching stare. Those eyes pierced right through him and John felt laid open, his whole life's story revealed in an instant. Sherlock must have seen something that convinced him of his sincerity because he relaxed his shoulders and seemed to uncoil his defensive posture.

"It may not be that easy, John," he said sadly. "I know him and you might already be in too deep. I…"

"Mr. Holmes!" a voice rang out from a short distance away cutting off what he'd been about to say. They both looked toward the sound. "Oh please, Mr. Holmes. I'm so glad I've found you. A short, woman dressed in a tweed suit trotted up to the two of them. She seemed flushed and out of breath. She smiled at John and waved a piece of paper under Sherlock's nose. "We need your help," she gasped. "Give me a moment. I had to run all the way from the Glasgow building."

"Shelia, what is it?" Sherlock asked gruffly. "This isn't a good time."

"You told us, that if we ever got a good one to let you know. Well," she said looking at both of them with a quick sparkle in her eye. "This is a doozy. Sherlock. You'll love it," she said handing him the sheet of paper.

Despite his distress at what they'd just been discussing, Sherlock quickly scanned the paper and something in his face changed completely. John saw the fear and anger simply vanish from his eyes to be replaced with something bright and wonderful. How long ago, Shelia? Tell me."

"The woman came in a few hours ago but I had quite a time tracking you down. You weren't answering your phone."

"I shut it off," he said abruptly.

"That doesn't help us when we need to contact you, now does it?" Shelia said with a disapproving glare at him. "Good thing I knew you'd be here. Anyway, our client is in quite a state. Can you come?"

"Excuse me," John interrupted the woman. "What client?"

"Our Sherlock has been known to help people solve problems," she said smiling at him. "You know, problems the police can't help us solve or won't for whatever reason. In our line of work, he's a regular godsend, our Sherlock." She looked adoringly up at his tall figure. For a fleeting second John saw a quick upturn of his lips and a look of pride on his face before he wiped it off. "She's exaggerating. I help out when I can."

"Do you?" John asked intrigued at this sudden turn of events.

"Yes, Shelia's a social worker near campus and she consults me to help her out on some of her more challenging cases. People are constantly trying to pull one over on government welfare system. I can usually spot the cheaters a mile away."

"He's helped me uncover the most extraordinary things," she gushed. "He knows things about people just by looking at them."

John smiled remembering his own first encounter with Sherlock. "Yes, I know. Don't let me keep you, Sherlock. It's great that you're helping out like this. If this woman needs your help, you should go." John felt a sadness creep in now that he would have to say goodbye to this extraordinary person. The last thing he wanted was to add to Sherlock's torment. He came all this way and now he'd have to leave. However, the more he found out about him, the more he wanted to know. For some reason, he wanted to tag along and see this amazing man in action. But, after what Sherlock just said about finding another safe place to be and leaving him alone, he couldn't see any way he might stay involved in his life.

"You think it's great?" Sherlock asked giving John the first glimpse of insecurity he'd seen so far.

"Of course I do. I'd help too if you needed a hand," John ventured.

"You're a combat trained Army doctor," Sherlock stated firmly without a trace of irony. "Of course I could use your help. You'd be surprised at how dangerous social work can be."

"Well, it's settled," Shelia said impatiently and strode off down the hall the way she'd come. "You'll both be helping then?"

Sherlock followed her and turned to look back over his shoulder at John. "Coming?" he asked.

"God, yes," he said and followed.

Chapter Management

Chapter 7

Notes:

I've based this case off of "The Man with the Twisted Lip," a Sherlock Holmes story by Doyle.

Chapter Text

"Shelia, if you would be so kind," Sherlock said after they had arrived in her office. "I'd like to question the woman myself. Doctor Watson, would you like to join me?"

"Me?" John asked. "What good could I do?"

"I'd like your expert opinion," Sherlock said ushering him past the tweed suited woman and into a small, drab looking office. Inside sat another woman who popped up suddenly as they entered. She looked up hopefully at the pair.

"Mr. Holmes?" she asked. "They said you'd be able to help me. I'm at my wit's end and don't know who to turn to."

John was surprised at how fervent the woman sounded and how much apparent faith in Sherlock's abilities.

"Sit down, Mrs. St. Clair," Sherlock commanded gently. "Tell me in your own words what happened."

The woman did as instructed and sat back down in her chair. Sherlock sat next to her projecting an air of detached calm. John found another chair near the door and perched himself on the edge of the seat feeling very out of place.

The woman, Mrs. St. Clair, looked tentatively at them both and began her story.

"It's about my husband. First of all, you should know his is a decent man. I don't want you to get the idea that he is at all someone who gets himself in trouble or has any dealings with…" here she stopped at took a deep breath and spoke in a lowered voice, "drug dealers."

John's eyes slid over to Sherlock's face but the man remained stoically neutral.

"This morning my husband had gone off to work as usual like he does every morning, and I'd gone into town to do some shoe shopping. I have an unusually wide foot and I shop at a specialty shoe store called Sandpiper. Anyway, its located near the less savory side of town. I don't generally like go there as it's a little dicey at best. I keep telling the owner he ought to move his location to the mall near the park."

Sherlock nodded his head slightly indicating she should continue. John was surprised at how patient he looked as he drummed his fingers on one knee in an effort to keep still.

"I had to park several streets away as there's no parking that side of town and I passed by a house set back from the street. It's all boarded up and seedy looking. I got the willies going past the front door I'll tell you. Just as I was almost past, I hear a sharp yell coming from an upstairs window and I look up to see…And I swear I saw it, my husband's face. He waved wildly to me as if to get my attention. As suddenly as I saw him, it looked like someone behind him yanked him backwards. And, he let out another yelp."

Sherlock sat up straight and put both of his hands under his chin in what looked like a prayer pose. "Do continue, Mrs. St. Clair."

"Well, I steeled myself and went up to the front door of that place and knocked. I wanted to get to the bottom of what I'd seen and find out what my husband, who is supposed to be at work mind you, is doing in this run down house. I banged and banged on that door and got no answer. I tried door and it opened, so I went inside. Two burly men met me in the hall and I demanded to know where my husband was. They called me a crazy bitc…, well they called me names and threatened me. The place was obviously one of those drug houses you hear about on the telly. It was filthy, paint peeling and the smell was horrible. I saw some syringes and little glass vials on a small table by the door. One of them actually grabbed my shoulders and pushed me right back out the door. They told me to get lost." Here she stopped a moment as if gathering her courage to continue.

Shelia patted the woman's hand and said, "Go ahead. Tell him the rest."

Mrs. St. Clair said, "I decided to use my mobile phone and call the police; but at that exact moment, I ran into a patrolman on the sidewalk. I told him what had just happened and he decided to investigate. He and I went back to the house and knocked on the door. One of the two men finally opened the door and said we could come in and look around. They'd managed to clean up the drug stuff in the meantime. He called me a crazy person and shouted that that my husband was not in their house. The policeman and I, his name was Krebbs, went all through the house and couldn't find any trace of him. In the same room where I was sure I'd seen my husband looking down at me there was a dirty, crippled old man on a disgusting mattress. He was covered in grime and looked like he'd been homeless and living on the streets for a while. When he grinned at me, his mouth was full of rotten teeth. He laughed at me! He said he was the one who had waved. The policeman actually knew him as a beggar named Boone. He told me that he's had to kick this particular man off the streets many a time for begging and sleeping where he shouldn't be.

The men were so convincing in their story that the policeman said he didn't have enough to get a search warrant. He almost escorted me out of the house and I didn't know what to do! I was ready to just give up when I saw a little package just peeking out from under the bed. It was a specialized Lego set I had ordered for my son's birthday. He's fond of the Star Wars series so I mail ordered this particular set for him. My husband had told me he'd picked up the package from the post office the day before and was going to bring it home. I quickly grabbed the thing from under the bed before anyone could stop me and saw it had our address on it. My husband had been in that room and there was proof!"

Sherlock stood up and began pacing back and forth while John watched him. His eyes alight with pure concentration. It looked like he was picturing the scene.

"Obviously there's more. Do get on with it," Sherlock said settling his stare at the woman.

"Well," she said. "The homeless man started raving and yelling about illegal search and seizure and I started looking around. I noticed some blood on the windowsill where I thought I'd seen my husband being dragged away. I called the policeman over to look and he took a small sample and put it in an evidence bag. The man said he'd caught his hand on a nail and showed us a gash on his hand that still oozed blood. It was bleeding alright. I didn't know what to think and again I'd almost given up hope of getting a straight answer when I saw the hem of a coat pushed back behind a closet door. I ran over and found to my horror that there lie a pile of my husband's clothes on the floor."

"Oh my god," John said. He was engrossed in the woman's story and almost forgot where he was. "What happened to him?"

Sherlock gave him a fierce look, "Let the woman continue, John," Sherlock cautioned.

"The police finally called in backup and they arrested Boone under suspicion of foul play. They questioned the other two but they claim they have no idea who my husband is. My husband hasn't returned and I fear the absolute worst, Mr. Holmes. The police are at a loss and don't know what to do to find him. That Boone person is behind bars and they are holding him until they have more evidence or a body." Here the woman broke down sobbing. "They say they don't have enough to go on to find him. I don't know what I'll do without him. He isn't answering his phone. He's an independent contractor and usually does work for many different people. I can't seem to any information on his current employer. Please, please help me. We've got three young boys who miss their father. Shelia is a good friend of mine and when I told her, she said she knew someone who could help me."

"I'll take the case," Sherlock said musingly. "Give me the address of the house Mrs. St. Clair."

"Of course," she said writing down an address. "I've filled out a police report and they said they will do what they can, but right now Boone isn't talking and they don't have any leads. I'm worried sick."

"We'll look into it," Sherlock said rising from his chair and heading toward the door. "Come on, John."

John looked up startled. "Just like that?"

"We haven't got a moment to lose. A man's life is most surely at stake," Sherlock said striding across the office and leaving through the door.

John stood as well and gave a brief look to Mrs. St. Clair, "We'll take a look and see if we come up with anything." He followed Sherlock out of the small office and into the hallway.

Chapter Management

Chapter 8

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

"Sherlock, wait," John said trying to catch the man striding purposefully ahead of him. "Do you know what you're doing?"

"I'm looking. People look all the time but they don't see, John. I'm going to look over the drug house but first, we'll need to pay a visit to Mr. Boone down at the station before he gets processed into the Glasgow jail."

With that Sherlock left the building and stepped out to the sidewalk to hail a cab. John trailed along after him and slid into the seat next to him. They had a bit of a ride ahead of them so he settled back. He wasn't worried or anxious about their task in the least. Going into a drug house or visiting police station seemed pretty tame after experiencing the front lines, and he had some skills in subduing people.

They rode in silence for a while and John decided to ask, "When you said it might already be too late for me to just give the money back to Moran, what did you mean?"

Sherlock bounced one knee and looked out the window. He waited a moment before answering and John began to wonder if Sherlock was going to answer at all.

"John, I know you think you came out here to help me but you are only helping him. Finding me was clever but that's not all of what Jim or Moran wants from you. A note arrived this morning," he held out an expensive linen envelop to John. "Go ahead and read it."

John took out the short note and read:

_Dearest Sherlock,_

_I know Mycroft has helped you set up a new residence in Edinburgh. I know you feel you need to take a break from "us" but I assure you I will do everything in my power to bring you back home. TTFN, darling."_

_Love Jim xxoo_

"It was hand delivered to me as I crossed the campus this morning. Jim knows I'd end up here at the university, and I'm sure he doing everything he can to find out where my safe house is," Sherlock said impassively.

"Who's Mycroft?" John asked handing it back to him.

"My brother. He has very high connections in the government. I trusted him to get me away from Jim and he's kept up his end of the bargain. I'm safe enough where I am. I don't believe Jim has found the house, yet. I've got a system in place to come and go," here Sherlock laughed. "It's really pretty ingenious."

"The Georgian next to the First Minister's house?" John asked.

Sherlock sobered, "That's the part we want him to know about. The real safe house is cleverly hidden. I'm not sure I want to tell you about it quite yet, John."

"Fair enough. In fact, I'm glad you haven't told me about it. It means you're being cautious."

"Mycroft's men have Jim in custody, but he's just as dangerous in as he is out. I will never go back to him. I don't know how long I can keep him at bay, but I mean to try."

John felt his chest lighten at that. He'd been worried that once Sherlock found out how much this man Jim wanted him back, it would change his mind.

"He's got eyes on you, John. Don't try to go up against Jim."

"I can handle myself," John said thrusting his chin forward. "Don't worry about me."

"John, you don't know what you're up against, and maybe that's for the best . But for all that, I'm glad you're here," Sherlock said.

"Glad to be here. I meant what I said about helping you out. But, after today, if you want to send me packing, I'll gladly get out of your hair." John meant it. This might be the most alive he'd felt since he'd been invalided home. With his complete lack of detective skills, he thought would have taken days before he located Sherlock. However, now that he had, he felt his heart racing at the thought of spending more time with him.

"It is good to have someone to bounce ideas off of. You do make a fair sounding board," Sherlock said looking back out of the taxi window. "Usually, no one pays much attention to the things I find fascinating…" His voice dipped a bit and he stopped and creased his brow as if he'd said too much.

"Don't worry about that," John said wanting to reassure him suddenly. "You'd have to chase me away with a cricket bat to keep from finding out more about this case. Let's go speak to Mr. Boone."

Sherlock smiled one of those unsure smiles John had glimpsed earlier and he grinned back in response.

"Lead on!" said John.

They arrived at the police station and Sherlock directed them both through the front doors. Sherlock seemed familiar with place so he followed his lead. In the lobby they had to step through metal detectors and sign in at reception. Visitors had to be on approved list in order to see the incarcerated so Sherlock told the man behind the counter, "I'm Mr. Boone's lawyer. I need to meet with him today."

"You're not one of the usual court appointed men," the uniformed officer said suspiciously. "I'll have to verify you."

"I think you'll find this will clear matters up," Sherlock said sliding an official ID badge across the counter.

The man's eyes widened and he said, "Right this way Mr. Holmes. But your associate will need to show proof…"

This is Captain John Watson, and I need him to accompany me. Dr. Watson, show him your ID."

Bemused, John showed the man behind the counter former military ID. He still carried it in his wallet even though he'd been discharged over seven months ago. He held it out toward the man with his thumb covering the expired date and he nodded. Right this way gentleman.

"How did you know I still had my military ID?"

"The same way I know the limp you displayed in London is psychosomatic. The same way I see you still carry yourself like a solider. You didn't even bring your cane on this trip, did you?"

"I packed it just in case," John said bemused. "You really do see everything, don't you. That's amazing. It's been feeling a lot better lately especially since I started at Bart's, but I use on it occasion," John said.

"Not this occasion," Sherlock shot back.

"No," John said with a laugh. "I think you're a positive influence on me, Sherlock. I'd hate to give all this up. It's quite therapeutic." He said it lightly but Sherlock looked at him thoughtfully for a moment before following after the officer.

John caught up with him. "How did you get that guard to let you see Boone? What kind of ID is that?"

Sherlock smirked and showed him the badge. John saw an official seal and the name Mycroft Holmes along with a photo of Sherlock. "I nicked it off of Mycroft and altered it a bit. His name literally opens doors."

"Sherlock!" John said. "You mean we just broke _into_ jail?"

"Yes, it's the only way I'm going to get to question Mr. Boone in a timely fashion."

Notes:

TTFN = Ta ta for now.

Chapter Management

Chapter 9

Chapter Text

"Sherlock Holmes," a voice called loudly from a bull pen area filled with desks and officers busy tending to various tasks.

"Inspector Lestrade," Sherlock said with a note of genuine surprise. "Why are you here?"

A silver haired man in his late forties came toward them. "I'm working on a murder investigation. Our perpetrator crossed into Scotland last night and I've been sent to try and retrieve him. We think we've got him pinned down in the area." He looked Sherlock up and down, almost as if he were inspecting him for damage.

"John Watson, this is Inspector Lestrade. I've provided him with some corroborating evidence a time or two to help him solve some of his more perplexing cases," Sherlock said. "Once quite by accident."

"Couldn't have done it without him," Lestrade said clapping Sherlock on the shoulder. "I've been sorely pressed and could have used your help the last few months. Where have you been?"

"I've relocated to Edinburgh, and I'm keen to avoid certain…former acquaintances."

"Ah, I see," Lestrade said nodding sagely. "Well, you've certainly helped me and my team a number of times in the past. I'm sorry to see you leave London. What are you working on now? Anything I can help with?" he asked pitching his voice low to avoid being overheard.

John couldn't help but notice he looked at Sherlock the way Shelia had done with genuine admiration. He wondered if Sherlock knew how much these people valued his expertise and help.

"As a matter of fact, yes. I'd like to get a look at some evidence. A homeless man named Boone was brought in earlier for questioning. He's being detained for now. They found some clothing at the scene that belongs to a missing business man. I need to look at those clothes."

"You know it's after hours, but I'll see what I can do, Sherlock," he said grinning. "I'll check with evidence, and I'll come find you after you've seen your suspect."

Sherlock turned and walked directly towards another desk in the bull pen. In it sat a patrolman who looked as if he were packing up to end his shift and go home.

"Mr. Krebbs," Sherlock said placing himself directly in front of the officer.

"Yes," the officer looked up. "You are?"

"Mr. Holmes, and like to ask you about a man you apprehended this morning. Mr. Boone?"

"The homeless man?" he said zipping up a shoulder bag and stepping around Sherlock. "Unless you have authority, I can't talk about it."

"I just wanted to know if you'd seen him before. Is he someone you've encountered on the streets previously?"

"Yes, I've written him warnings and citations for public panhandling but somehow he keeps getting off. He's got these little plastic figures he says he's selling. He spreads out this little blanket and sets them up next to a hat. Nobody actually buys them. People usually take one look at him in his sorry state and just give him their spare change. But you know, those beggars can make more money on street corners than most can at regular work. You'd be surprised."

"Indeed," Sherlock said. "Thank you, officer."

The man nodded and left. "Let's go speak to Mr. Boone," said Sherlock and headed down the hall to the interrogation rooms.

The pair sat in a cheerless room with the predictable two-way mirror/window. Sherlock paced the small space while John sat in a chair and waited for Boone to arrive. Finally, the door opened and a grizzled looking man was led into the room in handcuffs.

"I don't know why I need these," the man whinged holding up his cuffed wrists. He reeked of unwashed human with a sour hint of urine. The officer accompanying him scrunched up his nose at having to stand so close. "I told ya I'd cooperate."

"Standard procedure," the officer grunted. "You've got twenty minutes." He looked at Sherlock's well-dressed appearance and huffed before leaving them alone.

"Have a seat Mr. Boone," Sherlock said gesturing to the straight backed chair next to the man. Boone shuffled over to the seat with an unsteady gait. John could see he favoured his left leg as he did. But, something about the way he shuffled didn't seem right. He sat and grinned up at them both. Mrs. St. Clair had been right about the rotten teeth. He was surprised someone hadn't set him in a shower and cleaned him up at least. He'd probably been sitting in a holding cell, with others, for hours.

"I'd like to ask you some questions about Mr. St. Clair."

"Who?" Boone said cupping one hand behind his left ear. "Speak up, I'm deaf on this side."

"You are most certainly not deaf on any side, Mr. Boone. Sherlock said. You flinched properly when the guard slammed the door shut just now and that was on your left side. I'm sure your hearing is adequate."

Boone stared at him for a moment and wagged a filthy finger at the pair of them. "You're a clever one, ain't ya? I know you're not my lawyer Mr…?"

"Holmes," Sherlock said stretching out his hand.

Surprisingly, Boone took it in his and pumped it a few times which caused the stale urine smell to waft over them all. "Nice manners, nice clothes, you don't seem like a cop, Mr. Holmes. Whadda want?"

"Simply tell me what happened to Mr. St. Clair. You are most assuredly responsible for his disappearance," said Sherlock keeping a surprisingly calm face.

"I doan' know no Mr. St. Clair. That woman this morning was crazy if she thought I did."

"Mrs. St Clair said she saw her husband hanging out of an upstairs window looking down at her and calling out. Then, when she and a constable when inside the house, they found blood on the windowsill, a package with her husband's name and address and his clothing. Explain how all of that came to be in your possession."

"I found the clothes and the package in a bin. I rummage through 'em all day long. You never know what you'll find in a proper bin most days," he looked right at John and said, "It's surprising what people throw away these days."

John could see why people might want to give Boone money. He had a shock of orange hair, a pale face disfigured by a horrible scar that turned up a corner of his upper lip, a bulldog chin and a pair of dark penetrating eyes. He looked every inch a pathetic remnant of human existence, but he seemed to still have a cutting wit. Even if his physical appearance invoked pity, he didn't seem at all perturbed by it. John thought he might even revel in the disgusted reaction he got from others.

Sherlock gazed at the man for a long moment. "You are quite good at your chosen profession, aren't you?"

"I sell figures on the street corner. Nothing wrong with tryin' to earn an honest living," he said turning surly and casting his eyes downward.

"Except you don't really sell your little plastic figures, do you? You expect people to just give you money."

"People can pay me whatever they want to for the figures. I leave the price of it up to each person," he said as if he'd rehearsed this speech many times.

"Very trusting, Mr. Boone. I also noticed you've got an injury."

"I've got a busted hip, yeah. Can't do proper work."

John pulled Sherlock aside and spoke low near his ear, "I believe he may be faking his injury."

"Good observation, John. So do I," Sherlock said pulling John in closer to say, "I have a hunch about him as well, but I need to verify it."

John shuddered at the warm breath that ghosted over his neck at the words and simply nodded. He swallowed hard and forced himself to focus on Mr. Boone while hoping his face hadn't flushed too much at the unexpected contact. What was wrong with him? He was here to help Sherlock not to lust after him. He might very well be leaving in the morning back to London so why was he letting this get to him?

"Come along, John," Sherlock said suddenly. "We're finished here, Mr. Boone."

Sherlock rapped on the door and the guard came to let them out. "We'll be in touch," he said and swept out into the hall.

They passed another tired looking man in a rumpled suit carrying a battered briefcase. "That would be the court appointed lawyer. We might want to hurry along." Sherlock said leaning into speak in John's ear again. Every time he did that, John felt a shudder pass through him. He wondered if Sherlock could tell the effect he had on him. Knowing what he was capable of, John suspected he did.

John followed after once again. He wasn't quite sure what conclusion Sherlock had arrived at but he was curious to know. At the bull pen area, they went in search of Inspector Lestrade. They found him just coming up from the basement presumably where evidence was kept. He carried a plastic bag. "Come with me gents," he said leading them into a small conference room. "Here's what they found at the house this morning."

Lestrade took out a small wrapped package and lay it on the table. It had been opened to reveal a Lego set and John could distinctly see the Star Wars logo on the side. He also removed a man's jacket, shirt and trousers. There were no pants or socks in the set. Sherlock donned a pair of plastic gloves the inspector handed him and picked up the jacket. He patted down the pockets and found a man's wallet in the front of the jacket. Inside was an St. Clair's photo ID, some credit cards in his name and a few folded up notes totaling up to about 50 pounds. The photo showed a fit man in his mid-thirties, mildly handsome and intelligent looking.

"Why would the wallet full of money still be in the jacket?" John asked. A man like Boone would not be too keen to turn in a found wallet but as sure as rain, he would have lifted the money out at least. Why was it still in the jacket?

Next, Sherlock lifted up the trousers and patted down the pockets. He found a set of keys, a pocketknife and a bag of 50 pence, one and two pound coins. "Interesting," he said weighing the bag in one, long-fingered hand. "There's about 60 pounds in here."

"What's that doing in St. Clair's pockets?" John asked. "Do you reckon he tried robbing Boone of his take? Maybe Boone killed him for it?"

"Hmm, I'm not sure. Mr. Boone doesn't look likely enough to take a healthy man like St. Clair down in a fight. And why would a man like St. Clair need a beggar's bag of coins? It doesn't make sense."

John's phone sounded. He looked down and saw he was receiving a call from Moran. Great. He did not want to talk to him at all. In fact, he thought he might just stop by the B&B and get his stuff. He thought it might be safer to stay in a cheap hotel for the night before going back the next morning. He'd already decided to return the money to Moran and tell him he'd come up empty handed and didn't want to continue the job. If Sherlock's former boyfriend did have him under surveillance, the best thing he could do for Sherlock would be to part company with him and let him figure out what he wanted to do next. It pained John to think that Sherlock might have to uproot from his life here in Edinburgh and start again somewhere else. Maybe he could help somehow. He just didn't know what help he could offer the man.

It was Sherlock's turn next. Just then Sherlock's phone pinged to let him know he'd received a text message.

"So you turned it on then?" John asked with a smirk.

Sherlock gave him a withering look and looked at his phone. His eyes widened as he read the message. He quickly dialed a number and put the phone to his ear. "Mrs. St. Clair? Tell me precisely what he said. Are you sure it was him? I see." Sherlock disconnected and scowled furiously.

"What is it?" John asked concerned at the intense expression on Sherlock's face.

"According to his wife, Mr. St. Clair just rang up and told him he was perfectly fine.

Chapter Management

Chapter 10

Chapter Text

Sherlock felt frustration and confusion after he hung up with Mrs. St. Clair. Something was clearly amiss here but he couldn't quite place it. He'd placed a phone call to Lestrade and convinced him to hold Boone overnight to give him some time. Lestrade said he could hold him for 24 hours but would have to let him go especially if Mr. St. Clair had phoned his wife. They could wait until the man appeared back home however.

"I need to see Boone's house, John," he said. "I could use your assistance. From her description, it could be dangerous."

"I wouldn't dream of letting you go without backup," John said. "What do you think you'll find there?"

"I'm not sure, but I intend to find out," Sherlock said moving back toward the front doors of the police station. "But first, I'm sure you're hungry by now. Dinner?"

Sherlock often forgot to eat when he was engrossed in an experiment, but he could see weariness in John's face. He felt like he could eat something as well. It would be good to stop and think this out.

"Yes, I'd love to get something to eat. I ate a sandwich at lunch but it wasn't very filling. It's almost," John looked at his watch. "It's nearly nine now. Do you know anyplace that's still serving this late?"

"As a matter of fact I know a Chinese place that stays open until eleven. Come along, my treat," Sherlock said and hailed a passing cab. He and John climbed in. Sherlock gave the name and street of the restaurant.

They ordered and sat back to wait for their food. "Nice place," John said. "Authentic too," he said watching the waiter deliver two plates of octopi and squid to the couple sitting next to them. "I'll think I'll avoid that particular dish," he said and laughed.

"Really John, you should try something other than the traditional dishes most people eat. It could broaden your horizons."

"I've been broadened plenty in my life. I've been to the Middle East and fought in two major conflicts. I'm broadened," John returned. "I just like what I like," he said and cocked an eyebrow at Sherlock. "Usually the people I go out with don't criticize my food choices…" John stopped In mid-sentence suddenly aware of that he'd just inferred they were out on a date. He face blushed and he took a drink of water.

Sherlock didn't respond to the comment but held John's gaze for an extended moment. "Your dates, they don't mind that you're bisexual?"

John coughed a little as he tried to swallow his drink of water. "No, usually I take someone out it's because I'm attracted to them. I give that person my full attention and see where it goes from there. I've always been very direct about it, and most people I date have been fine with it. I've had a few bad experiences," he said.

"Recently?" Sherlock inquired.

"Yeah, the girl I took out last night took exception when I told her I've been with men, and she asked me not to call her again."

"Sorry," Sherlock said and felt relief wash over him at the thought that John was still single.

"I'm not," John said. He sat up straighter in his chair and looked as if he were resolving himself to say something. "I had it bad for someone before I met her, but he left town before I could get around to asking him out."

"Oh," Sherlock said watching John's face closely. He felt a strange tightness at those words and the way John looked at him. He felt like he was missing something important.

"Sherlock," John said reaching out and brushing his fingers across Sherlock's hand on the table. "That someone was you."

"Oh!" Sherlock said and smiled. "Me?"

The waiter brought their plates and John took his hand away to pick up his fork. The food smelled delicious and Sherlock's stomach growled. It had been at least two days since he'd last eaten. He really shouldn't let his fuel reserves get so low, but he'd had other things occupying his mind.

"That's why I really took this job," John said between bites. " I'd been thinking about you ever since that day we met at Barts. I took Moran's offer because I wanted to see you again. You made quite an impression on me. I was all set to turn him down until he mentioned your name. He said his employer, James I'm guessing, wanted me to find you, talk to you and medically assess your situation. He made it sound like you had slipped back into old habits…" here John paused, not sure how to proceed.

Sherlock nodded. "It's what he's used to control me with for years, John. The fear that I'd go back to old habits. He's possessive, cruel and power hungry. He will stop at _nothing_ to get me back. He believes I'm his property and he's been carefully grooming me since I got out of rehab. I owe him…. I owed him everything, or so I thought, and I felt like he was right to ask things of me…"

"Sherlock, no one owns you. Ever! I don't care how possessive he is. He got you off drugs, but does not mean he gets to dictate the rest of your life. When someone loves you, really loves you, they give you what you need, because you need it. And they don't expect anything in return except that you are happy and cared for. I don't see…" John stopped and looked down at his plate.

"It may not be my place to tell you this, but you deserve to be happy and cared for. I know it may seem overwhelming right now, but I know you are strong enough to get back on your own. You are an amazing person, and I've never met anyone like you." Embarrassed, John stopped speaking and suddenly began to eat. He didn't make eye contact with Sherlock again until almost half of his food was gone.

During this, Sherlock simply started at him. He hadn't touched any of his garlic pork. No one had ever spoken to him like this. Here sat John Watson, solider, doctor and possibly… friend? He looked so ordinary on the outside, but underneath, he was exceptional in every way. This man didn't want anything from Sherlock except to help him be independent. He'd never met another person like John and felt he could spend a lifetime trying to figure him out.

"I don't want Jim to hurt you, John. He will. It's not a matter of if, but when. Something, probably deadly, will happen if you continue to associate with me. I've been a weak fool."

"No, that's the last thing I'd call you," John said softly.

"I've been weak because I should have turned you away this morning. But, he'd never have believed you if you went back to London and told him you couldn't find me. He'd have set Moran to torture you, and you would have told him everything."

"I'm not afraid of Moran," John said vehemently. "I can hold my own…"

"James Moriarty doesn't fight fair, John. He's got connections my own brother can only dream of. He controls governments. He's got secrets within secrets and he knows everything! If you knew just some of what he's capable of, you crawl into the deepest hole you could find and not come out until he forgot about you. But, that's not possible because he forgets nothing!" Sherlock buried his face in his hands and slumped down in his seat. It could feel himself falling back into the same despair he'd been in when he'd been with Jim. How could he believe he could have just left? How could he believe he could have any type of happiness with someone like John. He'd have to convince Mycroft to put John in some kind of witness protection scheme to keep him safe he'd…

"Hey, Sherlock. Come back to me. I'm not going anywhere. "I'm not afraid of your ex…. Boyfriend. He is your ex, right?"

"Yes," Sherlock whispered between his fingers. "I'd rather die than go back to him."

"Well, I'd rather it didn't come to that. But, if you don't mind, I'd like to take my chances with you than without you. Something tells me I'd fare much better with _you_ on my side. What do you say we do this thing together? I've got your back, if you've got mine."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock said laying his hands back on the table and looking at John. He felt the oddest sensation, hope. He hadn't felt really hopeful in so long.

Encouraged by Sherlock's behavior, John continued, "I mean, we figure out this case with Mr. St. Clair and then march right back to London and take care of business. No more hiding out in Scotland. We live our lives and keep each other safe."

"We?" Sherlock asked.

"I've got a place in town and we could be flat mates. I'd rather keep a close eye on you and you could keep one on me. Help each other. Besides, now that I'm giving back Moran's money," John said with a laugh. "I'd need someone to share expenses. I haven't quite resorted to begging in the streets, but maybe I should take it up. It seems to pay well. Besides, you'd need a safe place to stay."

"Keep the money. You'll need it. If we do this, we'll need to lay low for a while. Moran knows where you live. I'd rather stay in a place he doesn't know about. But, I may know of a flat on Baker Street we could share…"

"Baker Street? I'd have to see it first, but I'm not attached to my place. I'm on a month to month anyway. We can do this. It's a deal, Roomie," John said, and dove back into his food with renewed enthusiasm.

Sherlock looked at the wonderful human being sitting across from him. It felt right to trust John. He nodded, more to assure himself of his decision, and he once more stepped off the proverbial ledge and fell. This time it wasn't John's smile that lured him to make a serious life decision, but the man himself.

He picked up his chopsticks and ate every bite of his dinner.

Chapter Management

Chapter 11

Summary:

Just a short update for a Tuesday morning.

Chapter Text

The two finished eating and left the resturaunt. John had decided to retrieve his bag from his room and find a hotel. In the cab John's phone pinged again. This time there was a text sent to him.

**Need to speak to you. - SM**

"Problem?" Sherlock asked.

"Moran wants me to check in. What should I say?"

"Tell him you're making progress and are staking out a lead tonight."

John typed back a response. The phone rang just after he hit send. They both jumped a little.

"Should I answer it?" John asked. It continued to ring, and he wanted to throw the phone as far away from him as he could.

"Yes. Tell him you're going to watch the First Minister's house tonight to see if I'll come back."

"Moran?" John said finally answering the call. He felt a nagging sense of worry running through his belly. He put the phone on speaker so Sherlock could hear as well.

"Watson," Moran barked at him. "I've been trying to reach you all day. What's the status?"

"I'm sorry. I've got a cheap phone plan. It doesn't exactly have the best coverage up here. I was planning to call in from the hotel," John lied trying to keep his voice smooth. "I'm on my way back there now."

"What have you found?" he asked impatiently.

"I checked out the address you gave me. Since it's next to the First Minister's house, I've had to be discreet. I can't just hang around, I'd get arrested or something. I got a lead from his website and decided to check out the university. I talked to a Professor McCullen who seemed to know Sherlock but didn't know where he was. I've been chasing his shadow all day, it seems. I had a couple of leads and I got close, but I think something spooked him. He seems to have just disappeared."

"Shit," Moran said. "I told him not to send that note…"

"What note? Who?" John asked trying to sound confused and curious. "Is there something you need to tell me?"

"No, John," Moran sighed. "This is a bit more complicated than I let on. Don't stake out the house. It'll do no good. Get a good night's rest and hang around the university tomorrow to see if you can spot him. If you don't see him, he may have fled again; then, you can come back to London. Keep me informed of your progress!"

"Yeah, sure," John said. "Anything else?"

"No, keep to our original plan. If you do make contact, just talk to him. Assess his health and try find out what you can. Report back to me immediately."

"Aye, aye, Colonel," John said keeping his voice as light as possible. "Mission is still on track, got it."

"If he's still there, I'm counting on you to make contact, John."

"All right. I'll speak to you tomorrow," John said hanging up.

John looked over at Sherlock who nodded. "He's still feeding me the party line, it seems. Either he knows I'm lying or he still thinks I'm working for him. Which do you think it is?"

"He knows you're lying John. I think he may even have someone waiting to kill you at your hotel tonight. Don't go back to your room," Sherlock suddenly said placing a hand on John's arm. "I think we should both go to the safe house tonight."

John nodded and laughed. "Yep, I'm am definitely _safer_ with you, Sherlock. I do not know how, but I'm not going to let him get you." John said looking into Sherlock's sea-gray eyes and feeling utterly protective. "Do you trust me? I mean, you want to give up your safety to protect me, but you don't have to do that. I can find another place to be tonight and you can go home where you'll be safe."

"John, please come home with me," Sherlock said pressing close into John's space. "You said we had each other's back."

John inhaled involuntarily as he breathed in Sherlock's unique scent. It left him heady, heart pounding. This moment held a unique blend of terror for his own life, and desire to take Sherlock into his arms right there and hold him tight. His eyes traveled down to Sherlock's mouth. He looked at the man's full lips and he wanted to place his own mouth on them and tease out just one soft moan from him. Even if that was all he ever got, it would be enough. He could take a bullet between the eyes tonight, and that one perfect kiss would allow him to die a happy man.

He cleared his throat and brought his own gaze back up to Sherlock's eyes. What he saw there made his heart flutter. Sherlock's eyes held his in perfect entreaty. "Come back with me," he said again softly. "Don't try to be hero and stick it out on your own. He'll take you from me just like he's taken everyone else. I won't let that happen, John."

"Well, you'd better tell the cabbie to take us to your place, then. We've just arrived at mine," John said as the cab pulled up to the kerb in front his B&B.

Chapter Management

Chapter 12

Chapter Text

Sherlock leaned over the front seat and muttered an address to the driver. John could not make it out but that didn't matter. Sherlock was taking him to his safe house. He didn't know exactly how to feel about that. The last thing on Earth he wanted to do was cause Sherlock harm or allow his ex to gain access to him. They travelled only a few streets to an office building with an underground parking facility. Along the way, Sherlock had sent off several texts. Sherlock paid the cab driver and waited until it left to walk to an unmarked, black sedan. He got in and motioned for John to do the same.

"The pickup location changes each night. I get the location a few minutes before I need it. Mycroft's men leave me a car and drive it to another underground parking lot where I drive it into the back of a truck and the truck takes me to the safe house. I occasionally sneak in and come out of other houses to throw James off my trail."

"Really?" John asked. "Every night you go through all that?"

"Sometimes Mycroft changes it up but essentially, yes. Something like that. We can't be too careful around James and his men."

"Why you don't just hole up somewhere and stay out of sight, maybe in another country?" John asked.

"I can't do that, John. I need my work here or I'd die of boredom. I can't just "hole" up somewhere without eventually coming out and getting involved. I told Mycroft the same thing. He's been helping me create a balance. Although, I may have to rethink my involvement in the outside world for a while. It's getting too dangerous."

"I can't tell you how sorry I am that you have to live your life like this," John said feeling his guts roil in anger at the injustice of it. If Sherlock had to hide himself away for a long time in order to be safe…he didn't want to think about that just yet. It felt like he'd just found him and now he might have to disappear forever with no real guarantees. He could feel a kind of panic at the thought. "I'm just glad your brother is so willing to help you out. Did you give him all your dessert as a kid or something?"

"Or something," Sherlock said smiling a bit fondly at John's dessert comment. "We used to be very close as children. But, we've gone our separate ways as adults. Although, he's come a long way toward earning back my trust recently."

John was immensely glad Sherlock had support from his brother at this desperate time in his life. He wanted to meet Mycroft and personally thank him for all of his intervention. "Are you sure he's going to want me tagging along in all this? He doesn't even know me."

"I know you and that will be enough for him. Let's just say that I don't make friends, ever. So you'll be quite a surprise for him."

"A good surprise I hope," John sat back in his seat and tried to relax. "It's getting late, Sherlock. Aren't you tired?"

"I don't sleep much when I'm working," he said. "We can't go to Mrs. St. Clair's drug house tonight, but I want to check it out tomorrow. You can rest when we get to where we're going."

The rest of the night's exchange went off smoothly and they arrived at the safe house an hour later. It was a nondescript farmhouse located just outside of the city limits. Two armed bodyguards stood pensively by as Sherlock escorted John inside. "I've told Mycroft you'll be joining us. He's going to come by tomorrow to meet you. He's already done an extensive background check on you or you wouldn't have gotten this far." Sherlock chuckled sardonically. "He's sent me your file. Would you like to read it?"

"He has access to my file?" John wondered what it said about him.

"Yes, he has access to just about everything, John," Sherlock strode quickly in through a tidy country kitchen and into a homey sitting room. Since it was summer, there was no fire in the grate but the place looked cozy and comfortable. John was impressed at how many personal touches graced the walls and mantel. For a "safe" house it oozed charm. It certainly wasn't what he expected from a government appointed house.

"Yes, it's supposed to make a person who's had to flee a horrific situation feel welcome," Sherlock said with a grimace looking at the homespun sampler hanging on the wall that said, "Bless this house."

"It's got more presence than my place ever had," John said and sat in the chair closest to the fireplace. Sherlock took the armchair across from them stretching out his long legs and suddenly John felt perfectly at ease. Yes, they were hiding out from a mad, jealous criminal who just might want him dead, but with Sherlock sitting next to him, he felt all was right with the world. As long as they worked together, they would figure this situation out. John sighed letting a great deal of the tension run from his shoulders and back. This chair was so comfortable, he might just nod off right here.

They sat in amicable silence for a while. Sherlock had procured a laptop from somewhere and sat tapping on the keyboard. John closed his eyes for a moment and felt himself drift off. He felt safe here, and with Sherlock at his side, he didn't have to worry for his safety either. He let himself fall into slumber.

A short while later he felt himself gently being shaken awake. "John, let's get you to bed."

"Hmm?" He said forgetting where he was for a moment. He startled awake quickly and sat up bleary eyed.

"Come, John," a deep voice said. John thought to himself that he really liked that voice. It rumbled through his chest, fell into this stomach and ended up right in his groin. "Let's get you more comfortable," the voice continued and he liked the sound of that very much. He allowed himself to be helped up and led into a bedroom toward the back of the house. He looked up at the tall, dark figure striding next to him. The lights were off in the bedroom and he couldn't make out Sherlock's face. He wanted very much to see what the man was thinking about just then.

Hands pressed him to sit down on the bed. Fingers began pushing his jacket off his shoulders and unbuttoning his shirt. John noticed Sherlock's breathing had quickened, grown shallower. He still felt groggy enough to allow this manhandling but something felt odd in the insistent urgency of Sherlock's attentions.

Just as he felt his shirt completely removed, John reached up and captured Sherlock's hands in his own, "Slow down, Sherlock. Sit down," he said patting the bed next to him. "Tell me what you feel," he said gently. The last thing he wanted from Sherlock was for him to feel obligated to him for anything. He had a feeling that James had demanded things from Sherlock because he'd rescued him. Sherlock owed him nothing. He knew he'd help this brilliant man no matter what the cost to himself, and the longer he stayed in his presence, the more he felt himself becoming entwined.

Sherlock sat next to him. At some point he'd changed into a t-shirt and sweat pants. He was barefooted, John noticed. Still holding Sherlock's hands in his, he waited a moment looking into those gray-green eyes, eyes that both cut into him and melted him all at once. Sherlock sat in silence for a few moments not saying a word. John reached out and gently brushed one cheekbone, and Sherlock nuzzled into his hand. He'd been wanting to do that since he'd first seen Sherlock that day at Barts. "Would you like to lie down with me?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded and John moved over to make room for him. They ended up next to each other, a few inches apart. John lay on his back with his arms behind his head. A moment later, Sherlock moved to place his head on his shoulder, and John felt such a moment of pure happiness he smiled broadly. He put his arm around Sherlock's shoulders and pulled him in tight. "You know," he said, "we fit together pretty well."

"Hmmm," Sherlock said. "I find you less intolerable than most people," his reply rumbled into John's chest.

"I'm glad," John said and felt himself beginning to drift. They could deal with tomorrow's problems tomorrow, but tonight they could hold on to this moment of safety. "Sherlock?" he said fighting off the urge to sink back into sleep.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock said with his face still pressed into the crook of his arm.

"We will beat him," John said firmly. "You will figure out a plan, and I will help you."

"I know," Sherlock said.

"And I'll do it because I want to," John said running his hand through the curls at Sherlock's neck.

"I know," Sherlock said again. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," John said and finally let himself close his eyes.

Chapter Management

Chapter 13

Chapter Text

Morning crept into the room and John opened his eyes taking a moment to adjust to his surroundings. Waking up in a strange room had never been one of his favourite things and he felt disoriented. Sherlock, at some point, had left his side and he'd rolled over on his stomach. He sat up and stretched. He'd been allowed to sleep until he'd woken up naturally, a full night's rest. He felt good, hungry, but good.

He got up, used the nearby shower to give himself a quick wash and put his old clothes back on. Better than nothing, he thought and wished he'd been able to get his duffle bag last night. It must still be there. By now, Moran's people would have known he hadn't gone back last night. His phone was resolutely quiet and some perverse part of him wanted to poke the cobra and see what it would do if he simply called and asked, "Moran? Do you plan to take me out, whack me?" John felt a nervous giggle escape him at the thought but decided to stifle it in case he'd look insane.

Just then, Sherlock came in wearing his impeccable suit and carrying a cup of coffee and a plate with toast. "I thought you might like something to eat."

John reached for the cup and said, "Cheers, this is exactly what I wanted." He smiled at Sherlock and moved into the small kitchen to eat.

"You eating today?" John asked nodding at the clean counters.

"I'll eat later," Sherlock said. "It usually just slows me down."

"No wonder you're thin as a rail," John said and took a bite of the buttered toast. "Ummm, could use some strawberry jam."

Sherlock nodded toward the fridge, "In there."

John opened it up and noticed it had been nicely stocked with a variety of fresh food. His stomach rumbled at the thought of a full English breakfast but he looked at Sherlock who stood watching him intently, and decided against it. His two slices of toast must seem indulgent to a man who fueled himself on thin air for days at a time. Ah well, it would have to be enough for now. He grabbed an apple off the counter and shoved it into his jacket pocket.

"So, do we go to the drug house?" John asked.

"No, back to the jail," Sherlock said with a smile. "I've solved the case."

"You've what?" John asked incredulously. "Really?"

"Yes, last night…in uh, bed. I thought about all the elements and the answer came to me."

"What is it?" John asked watching Sherlock's eyes light up at the thought of Sherlock revealing the answer to this puzzling case.

" Something you said last night at dinner gave me the last clue I needed," Sherlock said looking at him thoughtfully. "You have an insight that I seem to lack sometimes."

"Me? What did I say?" John asked trying to cast back over the conversation. He couldn't remember saying anything that illuminating.

"Come with me to the jail and I'll show you," Sherlock said wrapping a long fingered hand around his elbow and guiding him out the front door.

John didn't mind being ushered along. In fact, he felt swept up in the rushing river that was life with Sherlock. He'd barely known the man two for two days and already it felt like a lifetime. Being with Sherlock felt like navigating a rushing river riding in a slender kayak with paddles that were just a bit too short to keep himself afloat. But, he paddled along furiously anyway hoping to keep up.

An hour later, they stood in the Glasgow jail reception area. Sherlock had flashed Mycroft's badge again. He had texted Inspector Lestrade to meet him and they waited for him there. Sherlock had fairly hummed with repressed excitement the entire way to the station. John hadn't pressed him further to explain but he could sense he had a big announcement to reveal. Boone hadn't been released and had spent the night in jail pending processing. Sherlock wanted to get there early to see him before they let him go.

"Take a look at this," he said holding out his phone so John could read a text message. "It's from Mrs. St. Clair."

**My husband still hasn't come home or called again, Mr. Holmes. I can't seem to reach him. I'm really quite worried. – MSt.**

"Does it seem odd to you that he hasn't gone home to his distraught wife, John?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, it does," John agreed. "Why do you suppose that is?"

"Ah, Lestrade," Sherlock said turning his attention to the silver-haired man as the Inspector finally arrived.

"This better be good, Sherlock," Lestrade said. "I've got a flight to catch in less than an hour."

"This will only take a few minutes," Sherlock said. "I've arranged to meet with Boone in an interrogation room. I'd like you to be present." He was already walking back to the confinement area with John and Lestrade following in his wake. Along the way, he darted into the men's toilet and came back with a handful of damp paper towels. John looked quizzically at the wet wad and Sherlock merely grinned.

The Inspector barely had time to flash his badge and get buzzed in. It seemed the officers in the station remembered Sherlock from the previous day and granted him access. John followed along in amazement at how purposefully Sherlock took command of the station. He was in his element, he was a born detective and John wondered if Sherlock understood how incredibly amazing he was in this moment.

Lestrade and Sherlock entered the small room with the two way mirror. Mr. Boone was already seated much as he had been yesterday minus the handcuffs. John, feeling like a third wheel, decided to stay outside and watch the proceedings from the observation area. He could hear everything in the room via a speaker. A couple of other officers also crowded into the room with him. It seemed they were all interested in what Sherlock had discovered.

"Mr. Boone," Sherlock began as soon as the door closed. "How was your evening?"

"It's not the first night I've spent enjoin' the city's hospitality, Holmes. He growled petulantly. "I'll get over it. So, you've decided I didn't kill this St. Clair fellow then? Why ain't I free to go?"

Lestrade stood in the corner, arms folded and lips pressed together in a hard line. He looked anxious and John thought he might be wondering the same thing. He gave Sherlock a hard look that said, "Get on with it."

"I find it interesting that in the past two days you and Mr. St. Clair have never been in the same place at the same time, Mr. Boone."

John had kept his eyes on Boone's face and saw the barest widening of the man's eyes.

"In fact, I'd go so far as to say that the reason Mrs. St. Clair, dear worried woman, hasn't heard from her estranged husband is because he's sitting right here in this room." Sherlock darted forward and before Lestrade could interfere, he used the damp paper towels to wipe across Boone's face. A pink streak appeared under the brown tan, a clean spot. Sherlock pinned Boone's flailing wrist down to the table and grasped the edge of the man's lip. John thought he meant to tear it off his face when he noticed a thin film of skin-like substance coming off instead. It appeared he had a thick layer of latex over his entire face and Sherlock was determined to get it all off.

All the fight left Boone the minute Sherlock exposed his ruse and he sat limply in his chair with half of a filthy layer of brown, fake-skin hanging from his face. There sat the missing Mr. St. Clair, middle-class, self-employed business man. He finished pulling the rest off himself and sat with a bowed head.

"Touché, Mr. Holmes. You're the first person to have guessed," he said dropping the street speech and adopting the manner of a well-educated man. "You're very clever. I've been able to pull this off for years."

Lestrade shook his head in amazement. Next to him, the two officers laughed low, one whistled appreciatively. I would have never guessed. I've busted that guy at least twice and never suspected. I always felt so damn sorry for him," the officer said. John looked at Sherlock who sat staring fixedly at Boone/St. Clair's face.

"Theater trained?" Sherlock asked.

I had a scholarship to the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland and spent two years studying there. I dropped out before completing a degree when the scholarship ran out and wasn't renewed. I was never good enough for the real stage so I used my acting skills in other ways," he said looking defiantly up at Sherlock. "I tried earning a living the proper way, but while doing research for an acting role, I donned the rags of a street beggar and made more money in two days than I normally could in a month. The more raggedy I looked, the more in got. If I could bury my pride and get into my _role_, I'd have it made.

"Your friends at the drug house? They were your accomplices?"

"No, I had to fool them too. There's a certain kind of networking in my, ah, profession just like any other. I have to scratch their back, so to speak, and they scratch mine. That house gave me a credible base of operations. People who live in the underside of civilized society pull together in their own way. I'll have you know that I worked just as hard at being a good panhandler as anyone else does in the business world. It's just a different way to earn money."

"Earn is the operative word, Boone—St. Clair," Lestrade said. "I actually don't know what we'd charge him with at this point. But, your days asking for money on the street are over. Your secret's out."

"Where are you going, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked as Sherlock turned to leave.

"John and I are heading back to London. This case is resolved. I believe _Mr. Boone's_career is over." He opened the door and met John in the hall.

"Oh my god, that was brilliant!" John said patting Sherlock on the back. "What did I say to lead you to that conclusion?"

"You said you might have to resort to doing what Boone did to earn a living. It occurred to me that with the right pathetic image, a man could earn a decent living but wouldn't be able to hold up a respectable face to his friends and family as a street peddler. I made the connection when Mrs. St. Clair said her husband had only called and hadn't come back home. He obviously called when his lawyer came to speak to him yesterday to let his wife know he was still alive. He hadn't made contact again because he couldn't."

"Amazing," John said again.

Lestrade joined them in the hall. "Sherlock, I really wish you'd come back to London. I've got a couple of cases that have us frankly stumped. We could use your unique gifts."

"As it happens, I'll be available in London in a few days. Come along, John," he said and strode off back toward the entrance.

John cast a glance at the Detective Inspector and followed after Sherlock. He had a feeling he'd be doing this a lot in the future.

_Next chapters will focus on the Jim/Sherlock relationship and John's resolution to help his new partner/friend._


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 14 Chapter Text

John and Sherlock decided to take a train back to London. One of Mycroft's men called the front desk of the bed and breakfast to check him out. They'd bundled John's duffle bag up and had it waiting for pick up. He rifled through it as they sat together in the train car making sure it had everything.

"Mycroft has had it checked for bugs and tracking devices," Sherlock said.

"That's...good," John said looking out the window. "He'd made a commitment to Sherlock that morning and he meant to follow through with it, but he was just now beginning to realize how much of a change his life would be in for. He looked at the man across from him. He lounged in the train's seat looking every bit as good as a fashion model in his dark designer jacket and tailored trousers. John's fashion sense usually only stretched as far as a button down shirt covered in sensible jumpers and jeans. How would a man with tastes as expensive as Sherlock manage away from his extensively rich boyfriend when faced with the mundane expenses of daily life? John's pension and job at Barts might get them through most of it, but how would they cope with the rest?

"Sherlock?" John asked. "Have you ever thought of providing your services to the public? Kind of like a paid detective?"

"Hmmmm?" Sherlock said bringing his blue-grey gaze back to John. "I do what I do because I love the work."

"Well, what if what you love could earn a living? I know your family supports you, but what if you could support yourself?" John said eying him carefully. He wanted to bring the subject up without making Sherlock feel self-conscious or that he might be lacking in some way.

Sherlock continued gazing out the window, not looking at John. "I've never been encouraged to take my work seriously before. It's always been something I do mostly because I find it fascinating. I do in fact, consult for others." Here he sighed. "But, I don't work very well with the public. You might have gathered that from Professor McCullen. I have a way of infuriating those who seek my assistance."

John chuckled, "You? No."

"Yes, John. It's true I've solved numerous puzzles and some of those puzzles have even lead to crimes being solved. But, I often lose interest in follow through. But, this case was different. I wanted to see it all the way through this time. I wanted to find out what happened to Mr. St Clair because I wanted…" here he paused at looked back at John with an expression he couldn't read.

"Yes?" John encouraged him. "What did you want?"

"I wanted to impress you. I wanted to solve the case to impress you."

"You did, you know," John said taking one of Sherlock's hands in his. "I've never been more impressed with anyone than when you pulled Boone's face off and revealed St. Clair. You are as clever as it gets. That's why I think we can beat your _ex_-boyfriend and get you free of him."

Sherlock looked down at the hand covering his, and then back up to John. "Lestrade has asked me to work as a consultant for the Yard. He's made it clear he will pay me if I wanted to help him solve cases."

"Really? That's great," John said. "You should do it, Sherlock. Imagine all the good you could do getting at the puzzlers Scotland Yard can't figure out. You'd be doing a real service for London."

Sherlock huffed, "I don't usually find myself a civic minded person. My life with James put me in the way of information I shouldn't have about the criminal underworld. I know far too much. He is one of the worst criminals in Britain, and he's got a reach as far as you can imagine. I…I do have a lot to atone for," he said and withdrew his hand from John's. "If you knew some of what I've seen and let slide, I'm not sure you'd even want to know me," he said bowing his head and looking down at the tops of his shoes.

"Sherlock," John said reclaiming his hand between both of his own. "I know you who you are right now, and I'm not judging your past, or you. You are capable of great things, and I know you don't want that life anymore. You took steps to change your future and I believe you will continue down that better path."

"That's true. I want it to be different," he looked back up and John saw an intense resolve in his expression this time. They stayed that way for an extended moment until Sherlock's face brightened as if he'd just thought of something. "I've got pictures of the flat. Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, sent them. Want to see?"

"Yeah," John said accepting the camera phone from Sherlock. "This place is very nice. We could make this work…"

They spent the rest of the train ride browsing through the photos and talking about the logistics of moving into the flat.

Three days later, John sat in a very comfortable armchair in his new digs at 221B Baker Street. The place was homey, comfortable and centrally located. When he decided to go back to work, St. Barts could be accessed on the tube easily enough. He felt very good about life in general. Mycroft had sent over a discreet moving van to help him move his belongings into the new place, and the whole affair had been done with great efficiency.

John had finally met Mycroft Holmes. He found Sherlock's brother to be the epitome of British manners and etiquette, highly professional and as well dressed, in a manner of speaking, as his brother. The Holmes brothers certainly admired the finer things in life. Mycroft had even gone so far as to stock the kitchen with edible food. Sherlock's had acquired some of the elements of a makeshift lab and turned their kitchen table into a mess of beakers, portable microscopes and various substances. Sherlock seemed to revel in the mess.

At first, Sherlock had been very worried at John's possible reaction to leaving items about the flat. But, while John valued tidiness, he really didn't mind the Sherlock's clutter. "I love to see you work," John said watching Sherlock fill a pipette and drop some milky liquid onto a slide to study. "Watching you do what you do is like watching a craftsman. You're so meticulous and careful."

Sherlock smiled at John's description. He took great pride in being as accurate as possible in his experiments.

"Anything I can do to help?" John asked.

Sherlock stopped in mid-drip. "What?" he asked.

"Can I do anything to help you. Need anything measured or…?"

"You want to help me? Really?" Sherlock's thoughts stuttered a moment. Jim had only ever made fun of his work and forced him to do all of his experiments out of the way in either his workspace, or at Barts. "It's for a case Lestrade asked me to help him with. No, I don't need help right now, but I might in the future," Sherlock said and bent back to his task.

"Anytime," John said. "Let me know. He gathered up the newspaper and sat back in "his" armchair to read it. Things had been generally quiet so far. John had texted Moran that Sherlock had disappeared from Edinburgh so he'd decided to return to London. He received a curt reply back that said, "Job over. Services no longer needed. Keep retainer fee, I may be in touch in the future."

John had laughed at that. "I don't know what the man is playing at now. I can't tell if I've really been dismissed or targeted."

Sherlock read the text with dread in the pit of his stomach. I know Jim, and he has not forgotten about you, John. I'm glad they don't know where you are right now."

"You either," John said settled in to read the paper.

After they had almost a week of domestic bliss, they settled in as flat mates, and John put his growing infatuation with Sherlock on the back burner. The man needed time to adjust to the idea of being independent and self-sufficient before jumping back into a relationship with anyone. He could wait. Besides, John wondered if Sherlock wanted to pursue anything more intimate with him or was content to let things continue as they were. John's growing fondness aside, he felt Sherlock become more and more confident in their friendship each day. That suited him just fine.

Things picked up the day Lestrade asked Sherlock to consult on a murder investigation.

"John, it's a triple homicide," Sherlock gleefully informed him. "I'd love to have your medical expertise on this one."

"Let me get my coat," he said. In all honesty, every time Sherlock left the flat, John felt an anxious squeeze in his guts that he might not ever see him again. He wondered if James Moriarty would abduct him and take him far away. The more Sherlock revealed about him, the more he likened him to a poisonous spider who whisked its victims away and kept them wrapped in a cocoon until it could sink its fangs in an suck. "Triple homicide? You sound so happy," John said as he followed his friend down the stairs to the sidewalk.

"Lestrade says it looks as if they all murdered each other. How fascinating is that, John? Each other. Their investigative team is at a complete loss. This is going to be an interesting one, I can tell," he gloated and hailed a cab.

John shook his head and followed him and said, "Very interesting."

Chapter 15

John and Sherlock had almost three months of living together as flat mates and solving cases before James Moriarty finally found them. Sherlock had been waiting for a sign from him long before this, but Mycroft had kept Moriarty very busy defending himself against criminal charge after criminal charge. He'd had been kept in the highest security prison in the country, under the severest guard the British government could provide. Yet, Sherlock knew that it was only a matter of time before he'd find him out and tried to bring him back into his fold.

John had resumed his teaching duties at St. Barts and had not heard anything else from Moran. Sherlock warned him not to get comfortable and to always be on guard against anything that might seem off. "Keep your gun on you at all times when we go on cases," Sherlock warned him. So John had and used his military training to keep himself sharp and on guard.

John believed later the reason he'd been so easily captured was because he hadn't been expecting an attack in the form of a pretty, young girl.

"Please Sir," the small, blonde girl said with tears in her eyes. "Can you help me find my Mummy?"

As he thought back, it had to be one of the oldest ruses in the world. He'd knelt down next to her in order not to frighten her and already had his mobile out to call for help when the world went black. He'd only felt the smallest jab in his neck but the world spun into blackness and he'd waken up tied to a chair in a small, dank room. He'd been living on borrowed time anyway, he thought to himself.

He'd just woken up and thought himself alone in the room when he heard a chair scrape behind him. "Ah, Watson. Awake." Moran's voice said evenly. "Good, saves me having to administer the stimulant. Boss'll be here in a moment and he wanted you awake. Got a headache?"

John nodded. His head did throb and his vision still blurred unhelpfully. He wanted to close his eyes again but he knew his danger and tried to crawl back into full awareness. Sebastian Moran moved himself to stand in front of John.

"Good, I wouldn't want you too comfortable. You've got an important interview in a moment and you really want to keep your wits about you," he said laughing unpleasantly. He placed a firm hand on John's cheek and gave it a gentle pat. "You're not a bad lad, John. I'm sorry you got mixed up in this, but you know how it is?"

"Sebastian," John tried to say. "Let me go before…"

"Too late, Dr. Watson," said another voice from behind him. Moran's eyes moved up to latch onto the figure and they shone with a liquid adoration that John had only seen in religious zealots he'd encountered during his time in Afghanistan. "I'm already here. My overpriced lawyers finally got me off on bail and here I am. And, I'm so pleased to finally meet you in person."

A slight man moved into John's sight from behind him. He wore a tailored suit, dress shoes and had his hair parted and slicked back. He looked as if he'd just come from a posh party. John could smell an expensive cologne or aftershave on him and for some reason it terrified him. He saw Moran take a step back to allow the man better access to John.

"James, I'm guessing?" John said trying not to show his fear. He had a feeling that showing weakness to this man would be an extremely bad idea. "I'm assuming there is something I've done to justify this…"

James shot forward suddenly and grabbed John's face in one hand. "You've dared to touch what's mine," he said locking cold, dead eyes on frightened blue ones. "You've disappointed me greatly and I don't deal well with disappointment." Here he cast a look over his shoulder at Moran and the man dropped his eyes to the floor. He looked both crestfallen and scared simultaneously . Seb here vouched for you, Dr. Watson. He assured me you were the man for the job, a broken little doctor-solider in need of a soul to save. But, instead, it turns out you'd like to be a hero for my Sherlock.

Suddenly the fear left John and turned to fierce, protective anger. He wanted to shout, "He's not yours!" but he knew that would only get him very hurt or even killed at this point. James was spoiling for a fight. Instead he bowed his head as if already defeated. "A man like him would never even look at me," he said trying to buy some time to figure out a plan, any plan. "He's a genius and can run circles around me. I have no idea why he even keeps me around."

James put one finger under his chin and lifted it up. "I don't think so, Doctor. We both know better than that. In fact, I'm counting on the fact that he's grown rather infatuated with you to make my plan work. You're going to be my bait."

"Why don't you see he just wants to be on his own? He's not the same person you saved. He's moved on…"

James backhanded him across one cheek sending a shower of stars across his vision. "Shut up. Your job is to sit here quietly until Sherlock arrives then we'll have you singing a lovely little tune for Sherlock. He'll get to watch while I have Seb here pound you to a living pulp, not quite dead, and not quite alive. I want him to understand the consequences of defying me."

"He already knows," John said. "That's why he's left you." He knew he'd get another hit and this time it was Sebastian's fist that connected with his stomach hard enough to push all the air out of his system and leave him gaping like a fish. He felt a strong wave of nausea and fought it back. He had no idea what either of them would do if he puked just then and didn't want to find out. He scrunched his eyes closed and forced his system to calm down. He barely managed it. He was fucked unless Sherlock could track him down and had the presence of mind to get help from someone else, preferably Lestrade.

From what he could tell, he'd been out about three hours. Sherlock had been out investigating a lead for a case and John had no idea when he'd be back. They'd both grown too complacent, and now they were going to pay the price. He had very little feeling about his own fate, but he felt a keen stab when he thought of what might happen to Sherlock's growing confidence in himself if James followed through with his horrific plan. Sherlock would blame himself, of course, and probably slink right back into his former life. Either that, and here John's chest tightened, he might even consider a grimer alternative. He wanted neither of these options for Sherlock, and considered angering James into killing him right then. Maybe then, Sherlock might figure it out and want to get revenge. Anything was better than Sherlock settling back into his old life. He'd do just about anything to keep that from happening.


End file.
